Dad
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: A resolution to the Series II cliffhanger, this story covers the unseen events between Parallel Universe and Backwards.
1. These Things Don't Lie

DAD

By kellyofsmeg

Summary: With the release of the real episode finally approaching this October, I have made my own version of the events that happened between Red Dwarf Series II and Series III, including Lister's pregnancy, finding Kryten crashed on the asteroid, Holly's sex change operation, the three days spent with Jim and Bexley, and their return to their universe. This story picks up right where _Parallel Universe _left off.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is owned and created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor of Grant Naylor productions, not me.

Spoilers: _Future Echoes, Parallel Universe, Backwards_

RED DWARF MEDICAL BAY

**Day 1, Part 1**

"I'm going to be an uncle," said Rimmer straightening up and glancing over at Lister. He wished he had a camera. Lister's eyes had snapped open, and his mouth was hanging open in a comical fashion, taken aback. He remained that way for several moments as the news sank into his deadened brain.

"No," he said, shaking his head vigorously as though to shake off the unwanted news. "It's not smegging possible…"

"Oh, but it is," said Rimmer complacently. "Have a look for yourself."

Lister edged toward the table and snatched the test from the bench. He stared down at the tiny strip of plastic that displayed two red bars. The undeniable truth. He briefly wondered if the two red bars were meant to represent twins.

"It's not right. It's got to be wrong. Holly put you up to this, didn't he? Another one of his early April fools jokes…" He checked the results code on the back of the box again, comparing the red on the test to the red displayed on the box. They were a perfect match.

Lister looked at the Cat and then at Rimmer for reassurance that didn't come.

"These things don't lie, Listy," said Rimmer cheerfully.

"Yeah, but you do," said Lister.

"It's pointless trying to reason, Listy," said Rimmer. "You've already tried preventing what we saw in those future echoes. Trying to avert what we saw happening was like trying to tell a telemarketer that you're not interested in buying their hyper-suck aquatic vacuum. Remember when we knew the Cat was going to break his tooth, and you tried to prevent it by stopping him eating your robot goldfish and he ended up breaking his tooth anyway? Well, this is the same thing and this is certainly happening. We _saw_ the babies. You didn't look much older than you do now. But don't worry, old boy, you obviously got through it alive. Uncle Arnie will find out about the whole process so that he can tell you all of the _wonderful, _not remotely painful or uncomfortable experiences that you have in store. Besides, _somebody_ will have to teach the kids how to be successful. And their only hope is me. The only thing they'll learn from their dear old mum is how to get completely drunk in under two minutes and how to keep a cigarette in your ear without it slipping into your brain."

"Smeg off, Rimmer," said Lister morosely. He covered his eyes with one hand, as if trying to make them all disappear. "This is the last thing I need. I thought for sure I'd be impregnable no matter where I went. Is there any chance the results could have been a false positive?"

"No," said Rimmer brightly. "The box says that this particular pregnancy test is ninety-nine point nine percent accurate."

"Oh," said Lister hopefully. "So that means that there's a point one percent chance that the results are wrong, then?"

"Not exactly," said Holly. "The only reason that they didn't print one-hundred percent accuracy rating on the box is just as a precaution, so the company can't have a lawsuit filed against them if some twit doesn't follow the directions correctly and gets the wrong results."

"And you followed all the directions correctly," said Rimmer. "That's a miracle in itself."

"I'll can teach them some fashion sense!" said the Cat grinning broadly. "With you as their parents, they'll need some serious help!"

"Don't you think it's funny," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "That for years women have been complaining that they wished a man could know what it's like being pregnant. When it finally happens to a man, there's no women around to witness it. It's quite ironic, actually."

"We're behind you on this one-hundred percent, Dave," said Holly. "Unless you expect us to feel sympathy pains."

"Yeah!" said the Cat enthusiastically. "This is a really great thing you're doing, buddy! Personally, I would never sacrifice my beautiful body for something like this, but it suits you perfectly! I mean, what have you got to lose, your good looks?" The Cat and Rimmer guffawed loudly.

"When should I schedule in your first remedial Lamaze class?" asked Rimmer.

"Shut up!" yelled Lister, sick of having to listen to all of their side comments.

"Yes," said Rimmer. "You shouldn't notice much of a change at all. You can really grow from this situation, in more ways than one. We probably won't even be able to see any difference in you're appearance for quite awhile. Just think of all the things you have to look forward to—morning sickness, mood swings, insomnia, stretch marks—an overall wonderful experience all around."

"You guys aren't helping," said Lister, as he turned on his heel and started to head out of the medibay.

"Where are you going?" asked Rimmer.

"To my bunk. I need to be on me own to think a bit," Lister mumbled.

"Well I guess there's a first for everything. Oh, I just wanted to make a memo for future reference—will you be celebrating mother's day, father's day, or both?"

Lister's retreating form put his middle finger up in the air as he slouched off down the corridor.

"You have no one to blame but yourself!" Rimmer called after him, before he turned to the Cat and said pleasantly, "Well, I think he's taking it rather well."

"Maybe for now," said Holly. "But I just remembered something I meant to tell him but somehow forgot."

"No surprise there," said Rimmer superiorly, feeling that nothing could dampen his pleasant mood. "And what would that be, Holly?"

"Well," Holly explained. "There may be some complications with the pregnancy. The twins were conceived in a parallel universe where physical laws are different. For example, in that universe, Dave was able to become pregnant, where here, that would be physically impossible. Since he's no longer in their universe, his body will no longer sustain the pregnancy naturally. It will recognize the blastocysts as a foreign body and abort them."

"Well, what can we do about it?" asked Rimmer, alarmed.

"His body will have stopped producing the hormones needed to maintain the pregnancy," said Holly. "He'll have to take hormone inoculations if he wishes to continue with it."

"Hormones?" repeated Rimmer, his hologramatic eyebrows colliding in the middle of his brow. "What kind of hormones?"

"Estrogen, mainly," said Holly.

"Estrogen?" Rimmer repeated. "As in female hormones?"

"No, as in that leading brand of hemorrhoid cream," said Holly sarcastically. "Gordon Bennett, of course I'm talking about the female ones. He'll get some progesterone as well. Awful insulting to your manhood, isn't it? Almost as much as receiving Good Housekeeping magazine every month or being forced to sit through a ballet."

"How much will he need?" asked Rimmer curiously.

"About the same amount that you'd have to take before a sex change operation," said Holly, a strange look in his eyes. "I've worked it all out."

"Well, we'll have to act very soon," said Rimmer gleefully. "Who wants to break another piece of magnificent news to Listy?"

"I will," the Cat volunteered.

"Break it to him easily," Rimmer advised. "This whole thing is a very sensitive, delicate manner. As much as I'd love to do it myself, but I have some rather important business to conduct."

The Cat grinned. "I can tell this is gonna be fun. I've gotta go now," he said.

"Where to?" asked Rimmer.

"Hey, it's been three hours since I last moisturized my cuticles. If I don't do it again soon, my nail beds might look like yours. And I'm a Cat. I get uncomfortable whenever I talk to someone too long, especially someone like you. See ya, Trans-am wheel arch nostrils."

"Don't forget to tell him," Holly said.

"Oh, trust me, I won't," grinned the Cat. "It will just have to wait until after my preening time."

The Cat went out the same door Lister did, leaving Rimmer alone, examining his nail beds critically.

He hadn't been this gleeful since the time Lister's harness had snapped and he had fallen down into the cargo bay. He loved seeing the chirpy, annoying little gimboid in pain, and what better way than this? Oh, the next few months would be his heaven and Lister's hell. And he was going to milk it for all it was worth. He would find out everything about pregnancy, annoying Lister with useless trivia and controlling his every move, and Lister would have to do what he says because of his own guilt. Oh, this would be fun.

"Oh, Holly?" Rimmer called.

"Yes, Arnold?"

"Do you have any hologramatic books on pregnancy?"

"I didn't for this type, but I do now," said Holly. "Arlene transferred this book over just before we left. Hilly transmitted it to me…" Holly's voice suddenly became very gloomy, and his face dropped. "Will you excuse me, Arnold? I have to go now."

"Well done, Holly, go off and mope now. Maybe you are more than a completely worthless heap of senile circuits," said Rimmer to no one in particular as he headed off towards the drive room. What could Holly be doing? Perhaps he was still trying to rub that 'computer rash' off his stupid mug? Or, he could be categorizing his collection of singing potatoes. Yes, that was probably it.

Rimmer emerged in the drive room and found a large hologramatic book sitting next to the navicomp. _A Not At All Nasty Guide to Your First Pregnancy (With Illustrations.) _Excellent. Rimmer flipped open to the front page and found a note scrawled from Arlene.

"_Arnold—I'm sending this book to you just in case Dave's pregnancy test comes out positive. If you're anything like me, then you would seize this opportunity to learn everything about pregnancy to make Lister's pregnancy a living hell, if he is indeed pregnant. I know I would, but of course, females aren't the ones who get pregnant in our universe, but it would sure be a laugh if we boarded your ship instead and this happened to Deb. Have fun. I'll get you next time, you frigid bastard. Signed Arlene J. Rimmer. P.S. Deb says good luck to Dave. He'll need it."_

Rimmer shuddered and quickly turned the page and began to read. His eyes widened in alarm. "_That's_ how it works?!?" Disgusting.

Rimmer read the first few chapters and paused. There were some serious changes on Red Dwarf that must be made immediately. He called the skutters from their game of Go Fish for some assistance.

**AN: Please review!**


	2. Nine Smegging Months?

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, not I.

**Day 1, Part 2**

Lister laid in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't moved a muscle for over an hour now. He was still trying to cope with the shock of the news he'd received. The knowledge that he was pregnant, and mulling it all over had reduced his brain to a pile of mush that resembled the consistency of oatmeal.

He had mixed feelings—sure, he'd always wanted children. But he had never thought it would happen this way, and was more than a bit uncomfortable with how he was going about getting a family. It was much too unconventional for his taste.

His plan had been to move to Fiji with Kristine Kochanski, get married, and she would have the babies. That was what he had planned, that was what was natural, what was _normal. _What he was facing was anything from natural or normal. He knew it was his own fault for getting drunk and sleeping with his female self, without precautions or considering for even a moment the consequences of his actions in a parallel universe. Something like this was never meant to happen.

That's probably what troubled Lister the most. This all could have been easily avoided. He felt sick to think that for once, Rimmer was right. He should have been like Rimmer and stayed away from his other self, he should have run off and cowered while singing _We're Off to See the Wizard. _But he hadn't, and now he was facing the consequences.

He didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't know the first thing about babies—he probably couldn't tell one end from the other. The twins would probably end up with nappies on their heads and bonnets on their bottoms under his care. Lister knew deep down that he had about as much responsibility and maturity as a bunch of teamsters during their lunch hour with a herd of sheep. He wasn't smegging ready to be a dad, mum, or whatever the hell he was. Oh, Rimmer would never let him forget about this. The next whatever number of months a pregnancy lasts would be torture. The last thing he wanted was for his every move to be watched by Rimmer. He already drove Lister crazy with his tidiness and stinginess.

Still, who in their right mind would let him have children—_him? _He still felt like a child himself.

It always struck him as deeply ironic that someone who had specialized in dodging responsibility—someone who'd left his job as a Megamart shopping-trolley collector because he wanted to get off the career-rung rat-race should end up having the greatest responsibility of all: safeguarding the future of his species. In his early twenties he'd found it tough to write and post a letter. He'd ridden around on his first 2550 cc motorbike and never even bothered to get a license. Too much hassle. Strings would break on his guitar and he'd make due without them. Ironed shirts were for snobs. He'd had the drive and ambition of a sleeping hippy. He'd borrowed a book from the library called _How To Get Your Life Together_, forgotten to read it, and didn't take it back for three whole years. And when he finally did he had to explain to the chief librarian why there was a piece of fossilized papadams preserved between pages forty-two and forty-three. A together guy he was not.

But whether he liked it or not, fate had chosen him. He was the one. The Last Human. He had to change. He had to get his smeg together. And with Rimmer's bureaucratic cajoling, somehow he might. Rimmer's micro-minded mentality, his love of order and routine, were slowly forcing him to grow up.

Lister grimaced as an unpleasant thought that he had been fighting back wormed its way into his brain. What exactly _had _happened in the parallel universe between him and Deb? He knew they had made love, that was obvious. But why had they chosen Rimmer's bunk? He at least knew the answer to that one. It was a mix of the fact that they were both completely blitzed after having put away at least thirteen drinks each coupled with the fact that neither of them had the slightest respect for Rimmer or his belongings. They were probably too drunk to find their ways into their own bunk.

_Oh smeg, _Lister thought, closing his eyes tight and massaging his aching head. How exactly had it happened in the first place? Sure, he was lonely and hadn't had sex in three million years, but was he really _that _lonely? Had they talked about doing it or had it just happened, an accident where neither of them had been thinking? Had he been on top or on bottom? Who had played which role? Which one of them had the egg and which one had supplied the sperm? Did it really make any difference when they were both essentially the same person? He wanted to know what had happened, but at the same time he didn't even want to know. He was more confused than he'd ever been in his life. He was even more confused than the time when he was thirteen and he had discovered that the teacher he had been fantasizing about all year was actually a transvestite after an unpleasant encounter with 'her' when he was standing at the urinal during lunch break and looked over to see his teacher standing next to him.

No, this had to be worse. His situation had no precedent in this universe. And there was a good reason why: it wasn't possible. Maybe it was more beneficial for his own sanity not to know.

Lister visibly shuddered as his mind explored these dark, dangerous, forbidden waters. He regarded his stomach. It looked the same as yesterday. Were they really even in there? He wondered how big they were right now. No, the better question would be where were they? Would there be enough room wherever they were? He couldn't possibly have a uterus. Could he? He winced at the thought. No. They'd have to be somewhere else, somehow…

Lister's stomach growled and he realized it had been hours since he'd eaten—not since last night in the parallel universe. He had so many beers he couldn't see straight, if you can call that a meal. It was now late afternoon. This was probably the longest he'd ever gone without eating. That couldn't be good for him or the twins right now. That thought came up out of nowhere and stunned Lister, making everything suddenly seem more real.

Lister rolled out of bed and jumped onto the floor, slouching to the vending machines, and made his usual order that was so commonplace he didn't even need to think about it anymore. "Lister, RD-52169. Chicken vindaloo, papadams, and a beer milk shake," he told the machine.

"No can do," said the machine. "Can't do it."

"You what?" said Lister, leaning against the wall that nobody knew whether it was painted ocean gray or military gray.

"I've been programmed not to serve you any of those foods, especially a beer milkshake or anything containing even the smallest traces of alcohol for that matter."

"What do you mean, 'programmed?'"

"I mean that the skutters have re-wired by circuitries and given me very precise commands," the machine, now cured of its lisp, replied.

"The skutters?" said Lister, bemused. "I thought they were on my side. I bet you anything that Rimmer's behind this."

"Would you like to make another selection?"

"Yeah—some chicken tandoori."

"Sorry, none for you," said the machine in a very annoying mechanical way that made Lister want to grab the machine, rip out its newly programmed circuits and flush it out into deep space.

"How about some kippers?"

"I have strict orders against kippers. It supposedly carries too much bacteria."

Lister rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "What can I have, then?"

"This," said the machine, as it dispensed a tray of sprouts, carrots, green beans, sliced apples, peaches, and a banana sliced into bits. Upon closer inspection Lister realized that the platter was covered in a white chalky substance.

"What is this smeg?" said Lister. He ignored the lesson that he had learned to never go around sampling strange white powder on the account that it could be one of your deceased crewmates, he stuck his finger into the powder and touched it to his tongue, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "You know I can't stand anything grown naturally from the Earth. And what's this white stuff?"

"Vitamins," replied the machine.

"Vitamins?" Lister repeated in revulsion, wiping his tongue on his sleeve. "Isn't there anything else I can have?"

"Take it or leave it. Or you can have a salad, I suppose. That's all I have on the lunch menu."

Lister bit his lip and kicked the machine with all his might. He limped painfully down the corridor, his meal left behind with the infuriating machine. He collapsed into his bunk, nursing his five stubbed toes. Rimmer had gone too far by programming the machines. He'd just have to go on a hunger strike until Rimmer gave in, and if he really was playing the whole thing by the book, Lister was confident that Rimmer would panic and give into Lister's curry demands soon.

Lister wondered what else Rimmer had been up to. This thought was soon answered when Lister went to get a can of wicked-strength lager and found that his stash was gone, all of his cigarettes too. His secret stash and his secret, secret stash were gone as well. Rimmer had crossed the line—taking away curry _and _lager _and _his ciggies. What was next?

Lister couldn't stand wallowing around in this depressing pit of self-pity. He had to find something to occupy himself. He looked around the room for some sort of distraction. He trifled through his locker but found nothing that he felt like doing. He moved into searching Rimmer's locker. He found a five-hundred piece jigsaw puzzle depicting Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery at the Battle of the Bulge. As he sat down at the student stable and poured the puzzle pieces out onto the desktop, Lister noticed Rimmer's hologramatic exercise bike and laughed disdainfully.

_Honestly_, thought Lister, _who where's a helmet on an exercise bike_? It's not like you're going anywhere or can sustain some traumatic head energy. You can't lose balance and fall off a stationary exercise bike, and even if he did, so what? Rimmer was a hologram. He was already dead, and surely didn't require a helmet. Lister always found it amusing that Rimmer was so cowardly even though he had all ready drank from the bitter cup of death. Lister knew that if he had died and been brought back as a hologram, he would be fearless and let nothing hold him back now that the fear of death had passed. Rimmer, on the other hand, was more cowardly and self-preserving as ever. Rimmer seriously needed a memo that you couldn't inflict harm or kill somebody who was already dead.

Lister rubbed his brow and looked down at his watch. Here he was again. He had distracted himself for a full forty seconds.

"Hey, buddy!" said the Cat, traipsing into the room. "How're you doing?"

Lister shrugged. "What d'you want, Cat?"

"Well, first of all I wanted to know if you've seen my good eyebrow tweezers," said the Cat.

"You left them by the sink, next to your depilatory cream."

"Oh," said the Cat, retrieving the tweezers and pocketing them. "Thanks! I was on the verge of looking like Frida Kahol!"

"What else do you want, Cat?"

'What're you doing?" asked the Cat, leaning over Lister's shoulder.

"One of Rimmer's puzzles," Lister answered.

"Don't waste your time with that," said the Cat.

"Why?"

"Because you'll never finish it. I stole the piece with the dude's face on it just to drive alphabet-head crazy when he can't find the last piece to the puzzle!" exclaimed the Cat, looking quite pleased at himself.

"Great," said Lister, throwing down the piece he was holding in defeat.

"This whole pregnancy thing," said the Cat, laying down in Lister's bunk. "You're not actually going to go through with it, are you?"

Lister turned fully around the face the Cat. "Yeah. I am."

"I don't believe you. You actually _want _it?"

"Not 'it', man. Them. And yes, I do want them," said Lister, startling even himself at his sudden firmness in the decision.

"Are you sure?" said the Cat. "You don't have to, you know."

"What d'you mean, Cat?" said Lister incredulously. "Of course I do. It's not like I have a choice now."

"Says who?" asked the Cat, polishing one of the golden buttons on his suit top with his tongue.

"Says me," said Lister, surprised at the resolution he had suddenly decided on. "Remember those future echoes? That picture we saw? You weren't there, but I saw myself as an old man and I told me that I had two sons. Then when we were slowing down, me and Rimmer saw Jim and Bexley with me outside the Medical Unit."

"Jim and Bexley?" cried the Cat. "You've already named them? You really are set on this, aren't you?"

"I've had those names planned for years," Lister explained. "After Jim Bexley Speed of the London Jets. You see, I have to go through with it. I've all ready seen them. That makes everything so much different. It puts everything in a totally different perspective."

"You may not have a choice," said the Cat. "After you left, the head said that if you don't take these hormone thingies, your body will get rid of them or something like that."

"You what?" Lister cried. "Holly said that?"

"Yeah," shrugged the Cat, idly flipping through one of Lister's comic books that had words instead of smells. He quickly lost interest and tossed it aside. "I didn't really understand everything he said, something about Estonians and prognathous. but apparently it has something to do with the different universes. It's not too late to change your mind, bud."

"But I've all ready decided I'm keeping them," said Lister firmly, feeling more confident about a choice than he ever had felt in his life. "They could be the only good things that will happen to me for the rest of my life."

"Ha, you call it good?" the Cat snorted. "If it were me, I'd listen to the head and let them go faster than a dog on a hot tin roof."

"Haven't you got any sort of heart, man?" asked Lister ardently. "You've got less of a soul than Eva Braun's stiletto heels. It always made me sick to hear about women having abortions back on Earth. It was finally outlawed a few years before I left—there was nearly a war over the controversies of it. I mean, not to get all opinionated and all, I believe in choices and free agency and everything-- but I think it's totally wrong. Sure, the baby couldn't survive on its own that young, but I just can't see killing your own child. There's potential there. I mean, what if that baby could have been the one who was destined to save the human race from whatever killed it off? What if it had been you? I think they'll have to answer to those kids someday. I dunno, man. I just wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did something like that."

"I think you'd be doing them a favor," said the Cat. "Look at this dump. Not the best place to raise kids. Pretty depressing… Unless there's mirrors around, of course."

"I just can't justify taking a human life," continued Lister, ignoring Cat's interruption. "Especially my own children's. I know what I'm doing is totally strange, but I don't need another thing to add to my list of regrets in my life."

"Hey, do what you want," said the Cat, taking his portable iron out of his coat pocket and holding it to a crease in his otherwise immaculate suit. "Just don't ever expect me to understand how you monkeys think."

"What exactly did Holly say I needed to do?" asked Lister, who was sure it had nothing to do with Estonians or prognathous.

"How am I supposed to remember?" cried the Cat. "I'm a Cat. It's not important to remember unless it's about me."

"You're about as useless as an alarm clock for a rooster," he got to his feet. "I'm going to go ask Rimmer."

"You do that bud," said the Cat, who was now filing his nails with an emery board all over Lister's pillow.

Lister marched to the drive room, where he found Rimmer pouring over a huge volume. "Rimmer, what the smeg do you think you're doing? Why did you reprogram the machine? What's the Cat saying about me needing an Estonian to keep up the pregnancy? And where's my lager and my cigarettes?"

"Oh, Listy, you know you won't be seeing any of those for a while," Rimmer said, not looking up from the book.

"Why not?" Lister leaned over Rimmer's shoulder to glance at the book. "And what the smeg are you reading?"

"Something that will explain why I've confiscated your curry, lager, and cigarettes. Something that you would be reading if you were even semi-literate or cared about anyone but yourself."

"And what would that be?" said Lister, moving closer to get a better look at the book. He saw the cover and rolled his eyes. "I don't need that smeg telling me what to do. I've seen Jim and Bexley in the future echoes—they turn out fine. Looked healthy to me. So why can't I have my stuff?"

"Because," said Rimmer. "It could very well be possible that the only reason the twins were healthy was because of my careful supervision of you before they were born. Holly has informed me that you need to take two essential hormones if you plan on carrying to term, which we know you end up doing."

"Why do I need to take hormones, though?" Lister whined.

"Because," said Rimmer, in the tone one would use to explain that two plus two equals four to a very daft person. "Since we left the universe where men are the ones who become pregnant, your body will no longer produce the hormones that it needs to sustain the pregnancy. You'll need to take sufficient supplements of the hormones estrogen and progesterone that are essential to continuing the pregnancy."

Lister moaned in frustration and rubbed his temple. "This is totally demeaning—smeg!"

Lister jumped when he felt something poke him painfully in the buttocks. He turned his head and saw a skutter lifting its long neck, its three-clawed beak was holding a syringe which was presently inserted into his left buttock. "You trying to cause trouble, Bob? What the smeg did it do that for? What's he putting in me?"

"Those are the hormones we were just discussing. He just pumped enough juice into you to turn Sylvester Stallone into Ann Margaret," said Rimmer. "He was supposed to aim for the thigh, though."

"You could have warned me," said Lister angrily, shooing the skutter away. "It's humiliating enough having to take that smeg without having some service droid jab me in the bum whenever he pleases."

" And you really shouldn't have any more alcohol," said Rimmer, as Lister, still wincing, rubbed his sore rear. "They're already off to a bad start, with how many drinks you and Deb had and the hangover the next morning. And, another thing, sure they may have looked healthy, but were they really? How can we soundly judge their well-being from only seeing them for that brief moment? That's why, Lister."

"Give me one good reason why I can't have each of my things," said Lister. "I mean, I obviously don't want to do anything to hurt them, I'm just curious."

"I can give you many reasons. This book says to avoid spicy food because it gives you heartburn, so that's why I've had to entirely cut out your diet of Indian food. And imagine having your first vindaloo to be as spicy as you like it. You can't have any lager because alcohol can cause babies to have fetal alcohol syndrome and is linked to premature births, and there are too many reasons to list why you can't have your cigarettes."

"But fruit and vegetables, Rimmer? You know I can't eat that smeg," said Lister. "They're nearly as bad as a pot noodle."

"You'll eat anything if you're hungry enough," said Rimmer.

"We'll see about that," said Lister defiantly. "Why do you care so much about what I do anyways?"

"Because," said Rimmer simply. "There's not a lot that goes on this ship, and this is the most interesting thing to happen since Holly reported that he spotted an asteroid in the shape of a llama."

"Yeah, those were good times," said Lister as he turned and left the drive room, yawning. He headed back for his bunk, feeling suddenly very sleepy. He let out a small groan and rubbed his lower back, which he just noticed was extremely sore and tense. It was probably from when he tried to climb the disco wall using only his lips and fell flat on his back. Yes, that must be it.

Lister only had a couple of cigarettes a day, he wouldn't miss them nearly as much as lager. Being drunk out of his skull was one of his only escapes from his pointless existence aboard Red Dwarf. It made life with Rimmer almost bearable. Now he didn't even have that small comfort, and he couldn't face the prospect of having to listen to James Last albums sober for the coming months.

He climbed into his bunk and went to lay on his stomach and bury his face in his pillow, when he decided against it and turned to lay on his side. He took a deep breath and was asleep within moments.

Lister woke from a deep sleep what felt like two seconds later. His stomach had started growling so loud he couldn't ignore it anymore and decided to give up his hunger strike, which had lasted—he glanced at his watch—three hours and thirty-six minutes. He leaped off his bunk and marched back to the machine.

"What've you got?" said Lister, resigned to the worst.

"Here you go," said the dispenser, as a try of pasta and dark green romaine lettuce with a side of fruit clattered down the slot. "I knew you wouldn't last long."

Lister scowled and took the tray with one hand, his other hand giving the machine a very rude gesture. He took it up to the drive room, where he found Rimmer, still immersed in the book. Lister took a seat and rested both of his legs on top of the drive board, balancing the tray of his despicable meal on his chest. He lifted the plastic lid, tossed it aside, and sniffed the contents, grimacing. "Can't I at least have a little curry powder or madras sauce for this?"

"No," said Rimmer.

Lister shoved a spoonful of the fresh fruit into his mouth and made a face like he was being force-fed poison. But he was so hungry that he could eat just about anything right now, and he had cleaned the tray within five minutes, weird white stuff and all.

"What are these vitamins you've added to my food, anyway?" asked Lister.

"It's folic acid, which reduces the risk of birth defects in the brain and spinal cord, Vitamins B and D, iron, which helps the blood carry oxygen, prenatal vitamins, and a calcium supplement. You need them once a day, and since the dispenser tells me you didn't take lunch, you got them at dinner. You cannot skip meals anymore, either."

Lister smiled, bemused. "You've really pulled out all the stops, haven't you? If you had put this much effort into studying for your astronavigation exams, you just might have passed."

"Oh ha, ha," said Rimmer, making a mental note to disguise the vitamins so Lister would take them willingly without knowing. "You really should be the one reading this."

"Why should I? I'm sure that you could recite the whole thing for me. Besides, who really needs those books anyway? It's nature, innit? Whatever happens, happens. You body knows what to do. There's all these nit picky things that everyone _has _to have that people got on without for thousands of years. It's just some rich yuppie smeggers trying to make some money," said Lister.

"Well, most normal people would want to have an idea of what's going on inside them, that's why ultrasounds improved so much in the twenty second century—to see what changes come as the pregnancy progresses, what the normal side effects are, what stage of growth the baby is at—"

"Well, if I have any questions I'll just ask you then, since you seem to know everything," said Lister, as he turned to leave the drive room, leaving his empty tray on top of the navicomp.

"Where are you going?" asked Rimmer.

"I dunno," shrugged Lister. "I'll watch a movie, maybe take a nap."

"It's good to know you're still into slobbing and won't be overexerting yourself. Now you actually have an excuse to be as lively as a sloth on narcotics."

"Are all the things you're saying really necessary?" asked Lister.

"I'll answer your question with another question, Listy: do you want them to be healthy, don't you?"

"Of course I do," replied Lister simply.

"Then naturally, you'll do every little thing I tell you to," said Rimmer, looking back down at his book and resuming his reading, telling Lister without words that the conversation was over.

Lister emerged in the sleeping quarters, and opened his cupboard with all the Marilyn Monroe posters inside. He removed a shelf and wiggled the false backboard of the cupboard, and Lister peeled if off. Inside was a small stash that Rimmer wasn't aware of, because Lister had never opened it once in front of Rimmer. Inside were two slightly stale sugar puff sandwiches, a bottle of madras sauce, and a single cigarette that he had put away just in case of an event like this. Finally, a proper meal. Lister replaced the false backboard and the shelf. He took the sugary sweet sandwiches and madras sauce with him.

He stuck the cigarette between his lips and pulled out his lighter. He flicked it and a flame came up. He was just about to light the end of the cigarette when he stopped. Grudgingly, his conscience knawing at him, he put out the flame and tossed the cigarette aside. He thought that it's one thing affecting his own health by smoking, he didn't give a smeg about that. It was different when you were doing harm to someone else. Someone totally innocent. He realized that he could never bring himself to harm Jim and Bexley by smoking—they deserved better.

Lister climbed into his bunk and said to the screen, "On," the screen crackled and illuminated. Groovy, funky channel 27 was playing some sappy black and white movie. Lister beat his pillow until it was in a comfortable shape and laid on his stomach, resting his arms and upper torso on the pillow, before he changed his mind and moved onto his back, feeling slightly paranoid. He didn't know a lot about babies, but for some reason his instincts told him that laying on his stomach might not be the best thing to do, even this early in. He took the top piece of bread off each of the sandwiches and covered the cereal on the bread with generous amounts of madras sauce, and then drank the rest of the sauce straight from the bottle. He bit into one of the sugar puff madras sandwiches.

Lister turned his attention to the movie. It looked like it had just started. Good, he hadn't missed too much and could probably catch up on the plot easily. The couple in the show were newly married. Their life was perfect. Their house was nice and neat with a white picket fence around their lot. Their house never got dirty, and they never seemed to have to cook. Then one day the husband lost his job and his wife had to take up a job as a waitress and the men at the restaurant treated her poorly. Then they had to take out a loan with a thirty-percent yearly interest rate. Then their dog was hit by a car and killed. Then the wife found out she was pregnant just as her husband found out he had cancer, even though that didn't really matter because it was most likely the milkman's child. Then the husband and the milkman got in a fight and then made up by having drinks in the local pub. Then they decided to drive and got into a car accident and they were both killed immediately. And the wife was left with no husband or lover and supplier of creamy dairy goods, with a child on the way. The movie ended quite abruptly with a rousing chorus of, "We Shall Overcome," by everybody in the street while the wife sat in the gutters clutching a bottle of sherry laced with paint thinner.

As the credits rolled, Lister realized, to his bewilderment, that he had been crying as the movie came to a conclusion, his shoulders heaving, chewing on the end of one of his locks. He dabbed at the corners of his eyes and blew his nose on his sleeve. That was one of the worst, most depressing movies he'd ever seen, but what the smeg was wrong with him? Why was he crying? Had he gone soft or something? Lister realized to his dismay that he didn't know why it had happened, and this just made him even more sad and confused and he sobbed, "Off," whimpering more than before.

Why had he let that movie get to him? What was wrong with him? Lister heard footsteps quickly coming towards him. He slipped the empty bottle of madras sauce under his pillow and furiously rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, only succeeding in making his eyes even more red and agitated. He quickly laid down and buried his head in his pillow, facing the wall of his bunk and pulled his blanket up over his head. He lay there, trembling and sniffling, pretending to be asleep.

Lister heard somebody come into the room. He prayed it wasn't Rimmer. "Hey, buddy, wake up," came the Cat's voice, and Lister sighed with relief.

"Hmm?" he responded, not wanting to come out of the blanket until he had composed himself.

"Have you seen my mini iron?"

"You left it in the drive room," said Lister weakly.

"Okay, thanks, bud. Hey, what are you doing? We all know you're ugly, you don't have to hide. What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know," Lister moaned.

"Is it this whole no curry thing goalpost-head is doing? I told him you couldn't do it," said the Cat, climbing up the ladder gracefully and sitting at the foot of his bed.

"Yeah," said Lister, sitting up and pretending to come out a deep sleep, rubbing his eyes so that Cat couldn't see them. He suddenly had an idea.

"Hey, Cat, could you order a vindaloo for me?"

Cat considered the proposition. "I'm a Cat, so I've got to ask--what's in it for me?"

"You'll be rebelling against Rimmer for one thing," said Lister. "And I'll tell you where I saw a box of brand new hairnets."

"Sounds good!" said the Cat. "I'll be right be right back, bud."

"Don't forget the papadams!" Lister called after him. He got out of his bunk, wincing at a dull ache in his back. He stood in front of the mirror and massaged his tender chest in slow circles. His eyes were only slightly red now, his face only looked a little swollen. Not too noticeable. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the coarse stubble that covered his chin and jaw.

Just then the Cat came in, carrying a tray of chicken vindaloo and a bag of papadams. "Thanks, Cat, man," said Lister. "The hair nets are in Cargo Bay 5, storage deck."

"I'm there," said the Cat, and he turned and left. Lister sat down at the table and placed his meal in front of him. He glanced around. No sight of Rimmer. He looked at his watch, it was nearly eleven at night. Rimmer would be coming in to go to bed any minute now.

Sure enough, Lister heard Rimmer's hologramatic form coming with a low electric humming, and stashed the vindaloo under his pillow along with the madras sauce just as Rimmer walked in. Lister leaned against the bunk, trying his best to look innocent and unconcerned. He was glad that holograms couldn't smell, because there was a strong smell of curry in the air.

"Ah, what an exciting day for you, Listy. I learned loads today," said Rimmer pleasantly. "Did you know what you shouldn't ever touch a litt—"

"Rimmer," Lister interrupted. "I'd like to figure this out on my own. Every bit of news sounds better when it doesn't come from your mouth. I'll get through the next seven months fine on my own."

"Nine," said Rimmer.

"You what?"

"It's nine," Rimmer corrected. "A pregnancy is nine months, or forty weeks, though twins are usually a little early—"

"Nine?" Lister yelped. "Nine smegging months with no lager of cigarettes? I'm going to go raving mad…"

"You should have been sensible then and thought about this before your drunken sexual liaison with your female self," said Rimmer, before adding thoughtfully, "how will that work, anyway? You and Deb are the same person. Therefore your DNA couldn't possibly mesh… they should be nearly complete genetic copies of you, have all of your same traits… poor kids. They're guaranteed to have at least one extra chromosome each."

Lister shook his head. "Thanks, man. I don't really want to think about that at this moment. Can't you tell me something good, something reassuring?"

"Yes," said Rimmer. "I think I found a skutter who is capable of performing a caesarean. I did some skutter trials today. He seemed the most skilled with the scalpel. The pillow he practiced on is only in need of partial repair, whereas the other skutters turned their pillows into the consistency of shredded mutton. Don't worry Lister, you're in good hands with this particular skutter."

"No way, Rimmer. They haven't even got hands--they've got three fingered claws! No skutter is coming anywhere near me. Do they even have eyes? It's always seemed to me that they just wave their tools around blindly, hoping they'll get lucky," exclaimed Lister.

"Well, I can't help you. I'm a hologram, and besides, I can't stand the sight of blood. The Cat is useless—he would make some excuse like the latex surgical gloves don't match his outfit or something. No, Listy, the skutters are your only hope. Have no fear, we saw the future echo. You looked to be in good health to me."

"Yeah, I may have looked like I was okay," said Lister. "But for all we know I could have had a poorly stitched gaping wound in my side."

"We don't have much of a choice now, do we?" said Rimmer, as he climbed into bed and pulled his covers up under his chin.

Lister climbed into the top bunk. "We don't have to worry about this yet."

Rimmer snorted. "Lights," he said, and the room went dark. Lister waited until he heard Rimmer's snores before getting his vindaloo out from under the pillow. It was now cold, but he didn't want to wake Rimmer up by getting up to zap it. He peeled back the plastic cover and sniffed the contents. His nose wrinkled in distaste. It smelled different to him, more sour. He shrugged and hoped it would taste better than it smelt. Lister took a bite and chewed for a long time. The texture felt funny, and to Lister's horror, the flavors that his few taste buds was experiencing was awful. Lister downed the entire dish anyway, dipping the papadams in the vindaloo sauce. The whole time he kept asking himself the same question: _what the smeg is wrong with me? _The concept of himself not enjoying a curry was as alien to Lister as the knowledge that he was pregnant. But surely he wouldn't have symptoms all ready?

Lister stashed the empty tray away and lay back in his bunk and tried to get to sleep. Soon he began to feel a tingling, burning feeling in his chest. Heartburn. The worst he'd ever had. Rimmer was right. A vindaloo had _never _given him heartburn before. On top of that he had excruciating stomach cramps that evening, so severe that he didn't dare move, but remained curled up in his bunk.

Lister slept fitfully that night. He had a dream about Rimmer and his infuriating book, quoting the references in the book as often as he did Space Directives. _No eating anything that isn't green, leafy, and generally unpleasant. No lager. No cigarettes. Say goodbye to your curry—it's moving past that window right there, I just flushed it out into space. _The skutters stood by him, laughing, Pinky was waving a gleaming scalpel at him, cackling as he tore about a pillow, feathers flying everywhere, before he chased after Lister, determined to scatter his innards too. Then the skutter stabbed him in the side and he fell to the ground, writhing and bleeding, crying for help as Rimmer stood over him saying, "Hold still, Lister. They need practice." And then the cries of two babies pierced the night and Lister was out cold.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

19 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on. I usually dictate my diary to Holly, but he has gone missing, still moping over leaving Hilly. I have instead enlisted the hugely important task of recording my dictations of my post-life days to the ship's skutters for the time being. This time, I expect you skutters to not down _exactly _what I say and nothing else, okay? Sure thing, you rectum-faced orangutan. Hey! I said none of that! I can have you all dismantled, you know.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes—today! Well, it was a rather boring day, really. Oh, apart from Lister! You'll never believe what the goit's got himself into this time! Do you know what he went and did? Do you? He went and got himself _pregnant. _No kidding. Holly invented this useless contraption that he named the Holly Hop Drive and we went to a parallel universe and met our female opposites. I spent all night hiding from mine, she was only after me for one thing—and it wasn't a friendly game of RISK, I can tell you that. I know how she thinks. Anyways, the next morning we discover that the two Listers slept together and in this universe it is the men who get pregnant. He took a test as soon as we got back and it came out positive. I hope he'll learn the lesson not to be a skanky little man-whore anymore after what's sure to be the most agonizing experience of his life. The next nine months should be very interesting indeed. I read some of a book on pregnancy that Arlene sent over. I offered to tell Lister how the process occurs and what the alternative to a c-section would have been if he'd stayed in the parallel universe, but he refused to listen. He did that extremely rude, juvenile thing where you put your fingers in your ears and start humming really loud. I didn't even get to tell him that in the female-dominated universe the deliveries are through the…. (at this point, the skutter hears Rimmer's explanation, stops typing, and slowly rolls away from the keyboard. It does not return despite Rimmer's threats to have it dismantled. It needs to recover from what it has heard with one of his favorite John Wayne films.)

**Author's Notes: In some episodes like **_**Marooned**_**, Rimmer has a sense of smell. In **_**Backwards**_**, he doesn't. So I could technically choose which it is and in my story holograms can't smell anything. My final point: If any of Lister's monologue seems familiar, it should. (the part about dodging responsibility and Rimmer forcing him to grow up.) I was reading **_**The Last Human **_**and this just seemed to mesh perfectly with my story, so I borrowed parts from it. Thanks again, Doug Naylor!**


	3. Dessert With Breakfast

Dad

**Summary: Lister notices that things aren't quite right. The toilet lives in fear. Rimmer is concerned. Holly is still missing. Cat is around here somewhere…**

**Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor**

Day 2, Part 1

Lister woke up the next morning, his chest and back aching, his heart racing and still burning, his face drenched with dewy beads of sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

He turned his head slightly to look at his watch, it was seven AM. He suddenly noticed a dull throb in his head and soreness behind his eyes. His nose still felt runny from last night. Lister was too uncomfortable and restless to sleep anymore. He sat up in bed and felt an unpleasant lurching sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He caught a whiff of last night's vindaloo under his pillow. Suddenly his mouth became very watery, as saliva flooded into his mouth. He felt a gagging, choking reflex, and began to cough violently. His stomach lurched again and he covered his mouth with his hand. He couldn't hold it in any longer. His throat burned as the stomach acid climbed steadily up his esophagus.

"Oh crap!" he managed to yell. The sink revolved in the wall and the toilet swung into place where the sink had previously been.

Lister tumbled out of bed, and in his haste crashed to the floor. He scraped up his knees as they made violent contact with the floor. He crawled quickly to the toilet bowl, uncovered his mouth, and vomited profusely. After several moments Lister sat back, gasping, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

_That vindaloo did not agree with me_, he decided. He flushed the toilet. Look at what was happening to him. He was barely himself anymore without the curry and lager. And now this. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but he had a nasty feeling that something wasn't right.

Lister became worried. Was something wrong? Could Rimmer have been wrong about them having no worries because the babies looked fine in future echoes? What if there was some horrible condition the boys had that wasn't apparent in that future echo? Lister suddenly began to feel sick again with worry.

It was then that he realized how much he really did want these boys, and that he would be devastated if anything were to go wrong. They were off to a bad start, weren't they? He was completely blitzed the night they were conceived, so was Deb. Once again, he'd rather not think about it. He was just being stupid and paranoid.

The toilet began to rotate back into the wall, saying, "Now please irradiate your hands," Lister grabbed the rim and held it back. "Wait!" he gasped. "I don't think I'm done yet—"

He wretched again. "I could have sworn I just saw a boot come out of you!" said the toilet in astonishment.

"Smeg," said Lister, as he sank back against the wall. He hadn't thrown up that much since he had got drunk one Saturday night with his mates back in Liverpool at the Aigburth Arms. He had wiped the floor with anyone who had challenged him to a game of pool. Then he drank an entire bottle of cinzano bianco as a dare, stumbled out of the pub, and thrown up into a street performer's tuba. "I never thought I'd say this," he said to the toilet, "But I'm going to lay off the curries for awhile. They just don't agree with me right now."

Lister heard Rimmer beginning to stir. He quickly got to his feet, feeling quite queasy and nauseous. He clambered clumsily into his bed, pulled his sheets up over his head and pretended to be asleep.

"Lister?" came Rimmer's voice from the bottom bunk. "Are you awake?"

Lister snored loudly in response.

"Lister, I know that snore. That's your fake snore. Your real snore makes the windows rattle and wakes me with the sensation that I have a bulldozer plowing between my ears. Your fake snore sounds almost human."

Lister opened his eyes, yawned, and stretched, pretending he had just woken up, and not that he had been up heaving his guts out the past fifteen minutes. "Mornin'," he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

"Sleep well?" Rimmer asked.

"Super," Lister lied, sighing heavily, the bitter taste of acid still strong in his mouth.

"That's odd," said Rimmer. "I didn't. I had a strange dream where I had the worst case of the stomach flu ever. Sound effects and all, it was horrible. So realistic."

"Breakfast time!" Lister shouted quickly, keen to not expand on Rimmer's so-called dream.

"What've you got for me now?" Lister said to the dispensing machine. "Can't I choose?"

"It depends. What do you want?"

"I'll have oatmeal with honey swirled in with strawberries and raisins and brown sugar sprinkled on top," said Lister, saying the first thing that came to his mind, that for some reason he wanted very badly. "And a blueberry muffin and some orange juice, and a crispy bar and a raspberry turnover for dessert."

"Dessert with breakfast?" said Rimmer in astonishment.

"Hey, I deserve it," Lister said. "A little dessert never hurt anyone."

"I think it's a great idea," said the Cat. "Have you ever _tried _fish flavored ice cream? I think I could go for some right now. Good idea, bud."

Lister took the tray of food and headed back for his bunk. He settled in and smelt the food. Delicious. He took a generous bite of his oatmeal, chewing slowly and closing his eyes in ecstasy. "Holly, can you put on some Zero-G football for me?"

Lister stared expectantly at the black screen. "Holly?"

Rimmer emerged into the sleeping quarters. "Holly hasn't answered any of my summons since yesterday afternoon. I think he's still moping over leaving Hilly."

Lister shook his head. "Maybe he's finally, totally lost it."

"I think he finally, totally lost it about five hundred thousand light years back," said Rimmer.

Lister had finished his oatmeal and muffin and downed his orange juice at an impossible speed and was now moving onto the crispy bar.

"Breakfast in bed, eh Listy? The pinnacle of slobbiness. And look at you. Are you really that hungry?"

"Yeah," said Lister defensively. "It's normal, isn't it?"

"Lister, you're eating for three, not the entire British Royal Air Force. You've eaten enough in the past day to feed an entire third world country."

"Well, being pregnant is hardly a picnic," said Lister bitterly, recalling that morning's events.

"Really?" said Rimmer. "You're sure eating like it is."

"Will you get off my back, already?" said Lister sensitively. "You don't really know anything about what I'm going through, do you? So shut the smeg up."

Rimmer did shut up. In fact he looked very thoughtful for a moment, tapping his chin. Finally he looked up at Lister curiously. "What exactly have you been going through?"

"Oh, nothing," said Lister quickly. "Everything's totally normal. I feel great. Better than great. I'm fantastic."

"I'm not buying that, Lister. I've never heard such an obvious lie since Nixon said he knew nothing about Watergate."

"It's nothing, really," said Lister, trying to sound convincing. "It's just some little aches and pains all over me body. It's nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. But I know what it's from. I tried to climb the disco ball and fell flat on my back. I had a headache, but I get those a lot. It was probably just from my hangover. And I had a bad curry and chucked it. See? Everything's perfectly normal."

"You had a curry and threw up? Where did you get a curry?" asked Rimmer accusingly. "Don't the rules I gave you for the well-being of you and your unborn children mean anything to you?"

"I had the Cat get me one," said Lister, looking at his hands. "I really, really wanted one. But it was awful. It must have been expired. It smelt like my dirty sock basket."

"Well, there's nothing new there. Wait—you're trying to tell me you had a curry and _didn't like it?"_

"Yeah," said Lister. "It's insane, I know. That's why I threw up."

"When did you have the curry?"

Lister examined his nails, not looking at Rimmer. "Last night. After you were asleep."

"So when did you vomit?"

"This morning," said Lister. "Ask the toilet, he saw the whole thing. I think it might have retired."

Rimmer began to smirk. "What?" asked Lister, annoyed.

"That, Listy, would be what we call morning sickness, which is commonly associated with the first few weeks of the first trimester of pregnancy. However, you shouldn't be experiencing this symptom until the minimum of two weeks."

Lister sat up in bed, feeling nauseous again. "It was a just a bad vindaloo," he said, more to himself than to Rimmer. "That's all it was…"

"Or, there could be something very strange going on…"said Rimmer slowly.

Lister suddenly leapt out of bed, feeling queasy. "CRAP!" he yelled. The toilet groaned as it swung around, moaning, "Not again…"

Rimmer winced and closed his eyes as Lister leaned it over the toilet and vomited copiously. Yes, that was the sound he had heard in his dream. Lister reemerged several minutes later, looking ashen-faced and flushed.

"I'm going to go consult the book," said Rimmer, running to the drive room. "And see if Holly's done moping yet…"

Lister closed his eyes and laid back on the floor, his breathing quick and ragged, his heart beating fiercely. He felt like smeg, and wondered if everything was normal. He didn't even know what was considered normal. He didn't know who his parents were, he was an only child in his adoptive family. He had never known anyone who was pregnant to compare this to, unless he counted his pet cat Frankenstein that he owned over three million years ago.

He painstakingly got to his feet and climbed back into his bunk, and was asleep within seconds. He couldn't believe how exhausted he was. He felt so nauseous that he didn't dare move.

Lister's peace didn't last long. Rimmer marched into his quarters, the Cat in tow. "I honestly don't know what could be wrong. It's far too early in the pregnancy for you to be experiencing these symptoms. My bet is that you just had a rough night in that parallel universe, I know I did."

"At least you guys got some action!" cried Cat. "I was looking so good, then I find out my opposite is a dog! Unbelievable! I had been practicing my pelvic thrust all morning, too! "

"It's probably for the best that your opposite was a dog," said Rimmer, nodding towards Lister. "Listy's living proof of that."

"Were you able to talk to Holly?" asked Lister from atop the bunk.

"No, he's still out to out to lunch and the waiter's running late with the tab," said Rimmer. "No response."

"Maybe the head realized how ugly he is," the Cat suggested.

"Well, he'd better get back soon," said Lister, pummeling his pillow as he turned over to try and catch a snooze.

**Day 2, Part 2**

"You want _what?"_ said the Cat, as he stood beside Lister at the vending machine to get their suppers. "I've heard about the weird cravings, but never any like yours, bud."

"I want chips with cheese, olives, and red bell peppers topped with chocolate chips, pickles, and cherries. Oh, and a bowl of mint choc ice cream," Lister repeated.

"Anything else?" asked the dispensing machine.

"Oh yeah, a chocolate malt milkshake and some ketchup for dipping."

The machine dispensed the tray and Lister took it. "Hey, why am I able to have what I want now?"

"The skutters have reprogrammed me again," the machine chirped. "And you?"

"Fish," the Cat took his dish and went to join Lister in the Drive Room.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" asked Rimmer cheerfully.

"How about trying to keep your dinner down?" said Lister grimly.

"Come on, Listy. We all deserve a little bit of fun. How about a brief tour of the diesel decks or a game of RISK? I found one of my Reggie Wilson records I thought I'd lost. We could have a listen."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said the Cat. "I was actually planning on cleaning my nails with an ice pick, but that sounds like almost as much fun!"

"Rimmer, you have a worse concept of a good time than a bank manager on holiday," said Lister.

"Well, what do you suggest then?" said Rimmer.

"Durex volleyball?" the Cat suggested. "Guess that smell?"

"No, I'm too tired," said Lister, suppressing a yawn. "Let's just watch a movie and eat some popcorn or something."

"Extra butter?" said the Cat.

"Of course," said Lister, grinning.

"Sounds good to me!" said the Cat cheerfully.

"Since I can't appreciate the delight of eating popcorn, I want to pick the movie," said Rimmer. Lister and Cat groaned.

Lister went to the snack machine to get the popcorn for him and the Cat. He yelped when he felt another painful jab in his bum, and knew there was a skutter behind him again.

Five minutes later Lister, Rimmer, and Cat were in the Red Dwarf cinema. Rimmer looked at Cat's tub of popcorn jealously, all hot, buttery, and salty. Oh how he missed food. He would give anything to be able to eat again. He did not, however, fancy trying Lister's popcorn, which on top of being hot, buttery, and salty, was also dripping in raspberry jam and sprinkled with chopped olives.

"Rimmer," said Lister, as the movie credits started. "Why has the vending machine been reprogrammed to give me what I want to eat?"

"I noticed the odd, disturbing things you've been eating—" (he nodded towards the popcorn in Lister's arms) "So I looked up cravings in the book. It says that your body craves whatever vitamins and nutrients the babies need. So you can eat whatever you want now, no matter how disgusting."

"Brutal," whispered Lister, as the show had now started. Rimmer had chosen to watch some film that he thought would be beneficial for all of them to watch, especially Lister, a movie from the twentieth century called _Junior _that he found in a rubbish bin several years ago. In the movie, Arnold Schwarzenegger's character, Alex Hesse, became pregnant to test an experimental drug that would ensure a successful pregnancy. In the end, he gives birth to a little girl by caesarean that he names Junior. Lister found the movie less than enlightening, more terrifying, and kept asking Rimmer questions the whole way through. Lister pointed out that he was at a disadvantage to Alex Hesse: he wasn't having a single birth and he didn't have a team of professionals who knew what they were doing to help him.

"Oh, yes, Listy," said Rimmer, as the movie ended and they began to stand. "You have _lots _to look forward to."

Lister rolled his eyes and headed for the sleeping quarters, scenes from the movie replaying in his head.

He still pinched himself several times a day to see if this was all real. It had to be some impossible dream. He never thought this would ever happen to him, what bloke would?

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

20 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on, skutters. Something's amiss with the pregnancy. Lister's displaying signs that I've read are not supposed to be obvious until much later in the first trimester. He had morning sickness early today and has been having these insane cravings. This afternoon I caught him shouting abuse at the dispensing machine for not having any pistachio ice cream. The thing's he's been eating would gross out even Ozzy Osbourne. Plus, just today he used up an entire bottle of Lax-O. Tape off.


	4. You Didn't See Anything

Here it is, Day 3…

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor

**Day 3, Part 1**

The next morning, Lister blearily opened one eye and looked around the room. He leaned over and peaked over the side of his bed. Rimmer was already gone from his bunk. Lister kicked off his blanket and sat up, yawning widely and stretching his arms above his head.

He sat back against the cramped wall of his bunk, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Smiling, he pulled up his t-shirt with one hand and stroked his stomach with his other hand. "Good morning," he said happily. He couldn't see any changes yet, but he knew that they were there.

Lister slid out of his bunk and onto the floor, wincing slightly as he massaged his aching chest. He went over to the sink and picked up his toothbrush from the holder. He uncapped the bottle of toothpaste, made sure Rimmer wasn't there to tell him off, and then squeezed the bottle from the middle. The toothpaste squirted out of the bottle in a long white stream, two feet into the air. Lister opened his mouth wide and caught some of it in his mouth. The rest landed on Rimmer's pillow.

Lister quickly turned the pillow over. "Our little secret," he said. "What Rimmer doesn't know can't hurt him."

Lister looked in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Lister wasn't sure why he felt so cheerful today—probably because he hadn't thrown up today. It was only a bad curry after all, there was nothing to worry about. Yes, that was it.

Lister paused when he was brushing his bottom left molars. He didn't feel so good all of a sudden. He swayed where he stood, bright spots of light dancing in his vision. He waited for the nausea to pass. It didn't. He felt that horribly familiar lurching feeling that he had yesterday morning. "Please no…"

He waited. It didn't pass. It only got worse.

"Oh no," he whimpered, his hand over his eyes. "Not again…"

He gagged, covering his mouth with one hand. No. He refused to go through that morning ritual again. His eyes and mouth watered. He felt acid burning his esophagus again as it climbed up his throat. He realized he couldn't avoid it.

"Crap!" he moaned. The toilet didn't revolve but remained stubbornly in its place, safely concealed into the wall. "Crap! Crap! CRAP!"

Reluctantly, the toilet swung around, also saying, "Oh no, not again…"

Lister fell to his knees and barely had time to lift the lid up before he heaved into the toilet, vomiting possibly even more than yesterday.

"Feel better now?" asked Rimmer from the doorway.

Lister sank back and laid on the floor. "I don't get it," he whispered, wiping the corners of his mouth on his sleeve. "I woke up feeling so good…"

"Well, it's not morning sickness, that's for sure," said Rimmer.

"Why? How do you know?"

"Because it's half past twelve," said Rimmer. "So you can hardly call it morning sickness, can you? Here, I have something that I read might help. Skutters!"

Two of the skutters glided through the doors and came up to Lister. One of them held a syringe, the other had a long skinny plastic package.

"Can you do it in me arm this time?" asked Lister, turning his arm so the soft side of his elbow was facing up. The skutter with the needle rolled over to his arm and bent its long neck, stabbing at Lister's arm. It missed its mark the first few tries until it finally hit the vein in his arm.

"And what's this smeg?" said Lister, holding his elbow with his good hand and reaching for the long package. He tore it open and stared at it in distaste. "Saltines?"

"I read that they're good for morning sickness," said Rimmer. "If that's what it is, and if you do indeed have morning sickness, which I doubt. It's probably just your body reacting to all of these new hormones. Anyways, they're supposed to help keep your food down. Just eat a couple of those every morning before breakfast."

Rimmer strode out of the sleeping quarters, the skutters in tow. Lister gingerly picked up a saltine and took a bite. He chewed slowly.

He finished the cracker and took another and another. They wouldn't be bad with some salsa, mango chutney or madras sauce or something. With lots of cheese. And olives, and pickles…

By the time Lister had made the trip from the sleeping quarters to the dispensing machines the bag of saltines was half empty. He ordered breakfast from the machine and trekked back to the sleeping quarters, a massive headache beginning to pulse in his brain.

"Lister?" Rimmer called, peeping his head into the Drive Room. He wasn't there. He must be in the sleeping quarters.

Rimmer made his way to the bunks. When he arrived there, he was startled to find that the lights were off. "Listy?" he called again. "Are you in there?"

He waited. No answer.

"Why do you have the lights off? It's only two in the afternoon!"

Rimmer stepped into the pitch black room and squinted in the darkness. He made out a faint shape moving in the distance. "Lights!"

Rimmer took a step back in alarm, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. He rubbed his eyes furiously and blinked several times as the surprise of the bizarreness of what he was seeing sank in.

Lister was huddled in the corner of his bunk like some bizarre nocturnal creature, his eyes flashing. He was hugging his knees to his chest and he had a red hot water bag wrapped around his head. Beside him was a box of saltines. In his arms there was a can of whipped cream, and a package of yellow marshmallow Peeps. On his right side was a line of crackers, each with a Peep in the center, whipped cream smothering their tiny yellow sugary bodies. Another cracker sat on top of their heads like some absurd flat hat. They were saltine Peep whip cream sandwiches. Where in the name of Titan had he come up with that?

Rimmer and Lister stared at each other for several awkward moments.

"Umm," said Rimmer finally, backing towards the door. "I should probably just walk away slowly and pretend that I didn't see anything, shouldn't I?"

Lister nodded slowly. Dangerously.

"This didn't happen, right?" Rimmer said hastily, pointing to the Peeps.

Lister nodded again, chewing slowly. Glaring. At him.

"Right. I'll just be—umm—" Rimmer jerked his thumb towards the door, turned and bolted out of the room like a weasel on steroids.

"Lights," said Lister, and the lights went out. He popped another Peep into his mouth and titled his head back, squirting whipped cream into his mouth on top of the Peep, in all its sugary goodness. "That's right," he said thickly, licking his fingers. "You didn't see anything."

That afternoon, Lister, Rimmer, and Cat were all lounging around the sleeping quarters doing nothing in particular. Lister was laying in his bunk reading a comic book and eating a bag of crisps. The Cat was doing his laundry. He had a clothesline strewn across the room and was sitting in Rimmer's bunk, a basket of dirty laundry in front of him, licking each of his garments clean one by one. Rimmer was once again reading the book that Arlene had sent over, much to Lister's annoyance. One of Rimmer's Learn Esperanto tapes was playing in the background. No one was really paying it any attention. Rimmer had a new strategy. Maybe if he just listened to the tape as background noise when he busied himself with other activities, his mind would subconsciously pick up the lessons and he would be fluent in no time. It was humiliating that even Lister was picking up on the language before he was.

"Lister?" said Rimmer suddenly, putting down the book. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" said Lister, not looking up from his comic book.

"You know perfectly well about what," said Rimmer. "This ship is in no condition to have the arrival of two babies. Look at the place! It's a death trap! We're completely and totally unprepared. I hope we have enough time to put Mr. Yuck stickers on everything in sight."

"Rimmer, I've only been pregnant for three days!" said Lister in exasperation. "We have plenty of time."

"That's what you think, Listy," said Rimmer. "But you'll see that time really flies sometimes. In time, as the big day approaches, you'll see how totally unprepared you truly are."

"Most people are," said Lister, turning the page in his comic book.

"He's right, bud," said the Cat, squirting more cleaning detergent onto his sandpaper tongue. "You've got to be primed. A thing like this can really screw up the rest of your life. I mean, things will never be the same again once they get here."

"What?" said Lister, holding his place in the comic book with his thumb as he leaned over the side of the bunk concernedly. "Do you really think everything will be different?"

"Of course it will," said Rimmer. "Obviously things will be different. Movie nights will be Sesame Street Presents: Follow that Bird or Die Trying—or Barney's 'Who Says I Can't Ride a Rainbow?' That's the kind of tot we'll be forced to watch in nine months time."

"Yeah," said the Cat, bubbles floating out of his mouth as he spoke. "What'll become of our Game Night? There'll be no more strip poker or how many drinks can you down until you lose your vision? It'll be two hours of patty cake and peek-a-boo every night."

"No," said Lister, shaking his head fervently. "We'll still be able to have fun once the kids are in bed."

"Lister, do you honestly think you'll have anymore free time when the babies are here?" said Rimmer incredulously. "It's a full-time job. You'll never be able to just slob around by yourself and do nothing for years to come."

"You what?" said Lister worriedly. "D'you really think so?"

"I know so," said Rimmer plainly. "It's always the same. You're young and carefree, having six drinks a night and going to sleep at three in the morning. Then you have kids and everything changes. Your life will be entirely controlled by the twins—you'll be on their schedule, not yours. There will be loads of crying, of course. It's their favorite pastime after sleeping and eating. I may even consider switching to some other quarters—did you know that they wake up screaming two to three times a night? And that's if you're lucky. They'll need to be fed every two hours or so. It's like they have some sort of internal alarm clock. Two AM. We're hungry now. It doesn't matter if you just got to sleep, they don't care. Then you have to burp them and change their diapers every few hours—"

"Rimmer, just stop," said Lister, holding up his hands. "You're just trying to patronize me, aren't ya? It can't be all that bad."

"Oh, yes it can," said Rimmer, smirking. "If you don't believe me, you'll soon see for yourself."

"Yeah, but I don't have to worry about that for awhile," said Lister, laying back and picking up his comic book again.

But he couldn't read right now. He was replaying everything that Rimmer had just told him in his head. Oh, smeg. What if he was right? What had he got himself into?

"I don't feel so good," Lister complained for the umpteenth time.

"So you've said," said Rimmer dully. "I'm sure it's nothing-- it's only a headache."

"You really do think I'm a hypochondriac, don't you?"

Lister did have a headache. A killer headache. A headache to top all other headaches. It felt as though someone were repeating punching his temple whilst attempting to drill into his skull with an electrical drill.

He was laying in his bunk with his head buried into the pillow. His eyes were shut tight and he had the lights off again. His eyes were being extremely sensitive to light. He had his eyes covered with his arm.

Lister massaged his pounding head as Rimmer flipped through a textbook from the medical unit on headaches, reading by the dim light of the pink student lamp. Lister wouldn't let him turn on the other lights.

"It sounds like you're having a migraine," said Rimmer. "Do you see any bright, colorful spots in your vision?"

"Yeah," Lister moaned. "When I open me eyes. Is there anything I can do about it?"

"You could take some ibuprofen or aspirin," said Rimmer. "But you shouldn't take any of those until I look into it and make sure it's safe for you to take them. That should ease the pain somewhat. Other than that, there's nothing you can do but wait it out. Or there's this other stuff I found in the medical unit, called Head On, apply directly to the forehead…"

"Why am I having a migraine?" said Lister irritably. "I've never had a migraine in me life."

"It could be your body's reaction to the hormone inoculations," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "Yes, that's probably it. Just another one of the side effects."

"It hurts," Lister whined, his brain thumping a beat against his skull.

"Oh, it's nothing compared to the pain you'll be dealing with later," said Rimmer.

"Don't remind me," groaned Lister, turning over and facing the wall. He would try to get some sleep to distract himself from the migraine.

Rimmer researched the use of pain medication during pregnancy and informed Lister that it should be fine if he took just a small amount of ibuprofen. Lister gratefully took the pill and his head ache began to recede over the next few hours.

Lister returned to the sleeping quarters that evening from the cinema where he had been watching _Some Like It Hot _with Cat. Rimmer was already in his bunk, once again reading the huge volume that Hilly had transferred.

"Are you ever going to put that thing down?" said Lister, annoyed.

"There's lots to learn, Listy," said Rimmer. "Would you like me to read you some passages that I've highlighted?"

"No thanks," said Lister, sitting down at the student desk and putting his feet up on the table. "I'm good."

He reclined back in the chair at ease and sat with his hands behind his head, staring meditatively at the wall. The medicine was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to feel his headache making a comeback. He gritted his teeth as the pounding resumed.

The noises around the room bothered him. The soft humming of the engine. The buzzing of the lights. His own breathing. The clock on the wall ticking. The whirring of a skutter cruising down the corridor outside.

His eye began to twitch. There was a heartbeat in his head. Rattling against his skull. He felt as though he were about to snap. He heard Rimmer turn a page and exploded.

"DO YOU HAVE TO DO THAT?" Lister bellowed, leaping up out of his chair with such force that he knocked the chair over in his haste.

"Do what?" said Rimmer, startled.

"Do you have to turn those pages so loudly? Do you even have to read that smegging stupid book?"

"I was just—" Rimmer began, but Lister silenced his with a look.

"Do you have to sit there with those flared nostrils and those ears that stick out the side of your head like two satellite dishes? Is it really necessary to wear your underpants so they're pulled up to your armpits?"

Rimmer smiled blankly at him.

"And why do you do that?" said Lister aggressively. "Do you think something's funny here? Stop smiling like that! Stop it! It drives me crazy!"

Rimmer regarded Lister for a moment before saying observantly, "I'm getting the impression that you're upset about something, Lister."

"No way, Einstein!" said Lister sarcastically. "Where'd you get that idea from?"

"You're just tired," said Rimmer. "You'll feel better in the morning.''

Lister went to climb into his bunk and paused. He bent over and stared Rimmer in the face. "You can't sleep in here tonight."

"Why?" asked Rimmer.

"You're bothering me," said Lister. "This ship is _huge_. Why do we have so sleep in the same quarters?"

"But—" Rimmer began. He stopped himself. Lister did have a point there. "I'm afraid of the dark," said Rimmer lamely.

"Just for tonight," said Lister. "I need me space. I just want to be by myself for awhile."

"Are you sure?" said Rimmer, sitting up. "Is it something I did?"

Lister closed his eyes and shook his head. "Just go, okay?"

Rimmer got up out of his bunk slowly. He paused in the doorway and looked back at Lister over his shoulder. "I just want to say—"

"GO!"

Rimmer stayed rooted where he was. Lister yanked the pink student lamp from its wall socket and raised it over his head.

"I'm going, I'm going!" said Rimmer, putting up his hands as a gesture of peace. "Please don't hurt me…"

Lister watched in satisfaction as Rimmer scurried out of the room at lightning speed. He put the lamp back down on the table.

Lister took off his trousers and tossed them carelessly aside. He didn't bother changing his t-shirt and climbed into bed, and was asleep within moments. Rimmer walked in, and saw Lister snoozing in his bunk, sucking on his thumb. The git. It should be safe for him to go to his own bunk now. Rimmer noticed in amusement that one of Lister's trouser legs was in the goldfish bowl, and Lennon and McCartney were staying at the other side of the tank, looking quite spooked.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

21 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on. I can't believe it. I've been kicked out of my own sleeping quarters by Lister. The place where I've slept every night for my twelve years living aboard Red Dwarf and well into my death. It's unbelievable. Sure, he's had a headache, but he completely lost it over nothing. He has a worse temper than a short red head with PMS and a Napoleon complex. I know that I can't entirely blame him—those shots he's receiving have got to have some side effects, emotionally as well as physically. He'll soon find that out. He could also work on his throwing accuracy. When I came back to the bunkroom after he fell asleep I discovered that he had carelessly thrown his trousers into the fish tank. Tape off.


	5. Hilly?

**Day 4, Part 1**

The next day Lister woke up around eleven 'o clock. He checked his watch again. He hadn't woken up this early on his own free will in years. He yawned and stretched, and peeked over the side of his bunk. Rimmer's bunk was empty and neatly made. Lister sat up cautiously in bed, and to his immense relief, he felt no trace of nausea. Lister climbed down to the floor. So far so good. He didn't feel the gag reflex he felt yesterday and the day before. Lister went to the mirror and applied a generous amount of shaving cream to his coarse face. He hadn't shaved in days, but there appeared to be no new growth. Lister shaved, wiped his face on a towel, and turned to look for his trousers. Where had he put them? There they were. The left trouser leg was half immersed in the goldfish bowl, and Lennon and McCartney were at the opposite side of the tank, looking warily at the foreign body in their tank.

"Sorry, guys," Lister apologized to his goldfish as he plucked the trousers from the bowl. Lister partially wrung the water from his trousers over the sink. It was still damp, but it would have to do. Lister put his legs one by one into the trousers and pulled them up. Lister began to zip up the fly but it was more strained than usual. _That's weird, _Lister thought. _They fit fine last night…_

Once Lister managed to zip up his fly after several minutes of struggling, he found that he now could not button his favorite pair of cargos. He tried sucking in his gut but it did no good. He unzipped the pants again and touched his stomach. It didn't feel normal. It looked slightly rounder and swollen, and it felt hard to the touch. Now there's something he wasn't used to. Lister tried to suck in his stomach again, but he noticed little to no difference. Something wasn't right.

Lister remembered that Rimmer told him to tell him if he noticed anything else strange. Well, this was definitely strange in his opinion.

"RIMMER!" Lister called, one hand still rubbing his belly in amazement and confusion. "RIMMER!"

"What is it?" said Rimmer, panting from his dash to the sleeping quarters. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah," said Lister, dazed. "Look." He pulled up his Mugs Murphy shirt so his stomach was exposed.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" said Rimmer, frowning.

Lister sighed in exasperation. "Look at me stomach! Don't you think it looks big?"

"Well, you've always been a pit porky," said Rimmer evenly. "What's new?"

"I'll tell you what's new, you smeghead," said Lister, clearly annoyed. "Ever since that test came out positive a few days ago, I've been feeling really peculiar. I've had aches and tenderness all over me body, I've craved insane foods. I've puked more that I have in my entire life. I'm always tired. And a bloody, stupid soap opera made me cry like a little girl. And now this morning I couldn't even zip up and button a pair of me trousers that fit yesterday. That's what's new."

"Of course your trousers won't fit with the way you've been eating lately. It's all in your head," said Rimmer. Suddenly a smirk came over his face. "A soap opera made you _cry?"_

"I know," said Lister anxiously. "It's smegging stupid. That usually only happens when I'm watching _It's A Wonderful Life. _But I'm being serious, man. Something's wrong. I can feel it. Watch."

Lister attempted to zip up his trousers again to no avail. It seemed to be even more stubborn than it was a minute ago. "You know how when you're a little porky you can still manage to somehow zip up the trousers, even if you've maybe put on a few pounds?"

"You would," Rimmer muttered.

"Well," said Lister, as he struggled with the zipper. "I can't. It just won't budge. It's all solid-like," said Lister. He poked his slightly protruding stomach. "There's a definite bump there. See?"

"What are you suggesting?" said Rimmer skeptically. "It can't possibly be the pregnancy, not even with twins. You won't even start to really show until the start of the second trimester."

"You know what we need?" said Lister, pulling down his t-shirt over his trousers that wouldn't button.

"What?"

"Holly," said Lister.

"But he hasn't been answering my summons for days," said Rimmer.

Lister tapped on his wrist watch. "Hol?"

There was no answer. "Hol!" Lister repeated, now holding the watch so close to his mouth that his breath fogged the glass. "Hol!"

Lister swung his arm back down to his side. "He's not answering."

"I told you," said Rimmer.

"Let's go to the Drive Room and force him to come out," said Lister.

"Lead the way," said Rimmer.

**Day 4, Part 2**

The Cat, Rimmer, and Lister all stood in the Drive Room minutes later. Lister typed some override commands into the computer. "Holly man, we need to talk to you. It's important."

"Holly will be here in a minute," said a cheery voice recording.

"Who are you?" asked Rimmer, looking around for the source of the irritating voice.

"I am Holly's messenger, a back-up voice system that he reserves for special occasions. And boy does Holly have a surprise for you. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Lister, Rimmer, and Cat together, uncertainly.

A head-shape figure came up on Holly's screen, wrapped up in white bandages like a mummy. The crew stared in wide-eyed bewilderment.

"What happened to you, Holly?" croaked Lister.

"I told you he must have realized how ugly he is," said the Cat. "Either that or he got in some sort of serious accident involving a brick wall."

The messenger spoke again. "Are you ready for the unveiling—of the new Holly?"

"New Holly?" said Rimmer perplexedly.

"Let's see him," said Lister, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

The bandages virtually began to unravel, then rolled away faster and faster, and suddenly they all fell off at once, as though impatient. The crew gasped. A head with long blonde hair, bangs, a mouth painted with bright red lipstick with wide blue eyes, and a confused, lost smile appeared before their eyes.

"Hilly?" they said in unison.

"Hey, dudes, what's happening?" said the head. "It's me, your old mate Holly."

"What have you done to yourself, Hol?" said Lister, who, like the others, was completely shocked.

"I've given myself a head sex change operation," said Holly, in his, now her, new woman's voice. "I just couldn't bare it any longer living without Hilly."

"But why?" said Rimmer incredulously. "You liked Hilly so much that you decided to look just like her? That's pathetic. Can you imagine what it would be like if someone got a head swap every time they decided to look like their current fling?"

"She wasn't a fling," said Holly. "That was love, that was."

"You knew her less than eighteen hours!" Lister cried.

"It was long enough," said Holly indignantly. "A lot can happen in eighteen hours."

"Yeah, you're not one to talk, bud," said the Cat, waving his arm at Lister.

The crew sat in stunned silence for several moments, absorbing the shock of their senile computer now being female, when Holly spoke again. "You wanted to ask me something, Dave? I just got around to checking my messages."

"Yeah," said Lister, finally remembering why he was here in the first place, and considering it polite to not interrogate the senile computer anymore at the moment. "Something weird is going on, Hol. I've only been pregnant a few days, but I've been feeling really strange. Rimmer says that I've all ready shown a lot of the signs of late first trimester. And then today I could hardly even zip me trousers up."  
"Ah," said Holly thoughtfully. "I thought this might happen. You're right, Dave. There is something weird going on. We're talking Twilight Zone weird. My theory is that since the babies were conceived in a parallel universe, different physical laws apply here. It sounds like these physical laws are making it so that the twins are developing at a much faster rate, which would explain why you experienced symptoms so early. The gestation period has been dramatically shortened,"

Lister thought about this for a moment, his hands over his slightly protruding belly. "So you're saying that the babies are growing at an increased speed? That'll shorten the pregnancy, right?"

"Yes, that's what I believe it means," Holly nodded.

"By how much?" said the Cat. "Things were just starting to get interesting!"

"It's impossible for me to know yet, I'll need some data. If Dave goes down to the Medi-Lab and runs some tests, I'll be able to give you a fairly accurate prediction for the due date."

"Sounds good, Hol," said Lister, rising from his chair. "But do you think the boys are normal and healthy apart from that?"

"They should be," said Holly. "We saw the future echoes. They looked plenty healthy to me. Decent-sized lads they were. They had huge heads."

"Cheers, Holly, thanks for reminding me. Why does everyone keep saying that?" whined Lister.

Rimmer smirked. "As a constant reminder to you of the pain and discomfort you have in store for you."

The Cat laughed. "This is gonna be fun,"

"Speak for yourself," said Lister moodily, as they filed one by one out of the Drive Room to the Medical Bay.

**Day 4, Part 3**

"It's lucky that I had the skutters fix up the medicomp," said Rimmer, referring to the time not too long ago when Lister had caught a bad case of mutated pneumonia and hallucinated his Confidence and Paranoia coming to life. Confidence had broken the medicomp to keep Lister from getting better. The skutters had finished repairing the machine yesterday afternoon, and it was a good thing they had.

"What do you want me to do first, Hol?" said Lister, who was standing my the medicomp, wearing just his boxers and his red London Jets shirt.

"Let's start with the whales, Dave," said Holly.

"The what?" said Lister, confused.

"Don't you mean the scales, you senile transvestite crude heap of cheap circuitry?" said Rimmer.

"Yeah, that's what I meant, Dave. Get on the scales." Said Holly.

"I don't think the poor scales can take it," Rimmer said.

"Smeg off, Rimmer," said Lister for the umpteenth time that day.

Lister stepped on the scales, and Holly suddenly banged her head on the screen twelve times, her long blonde hair swishing about her face. She stopped abruptly and gazed at them through crossed eyes.

"What was that for?" screeched the Cat.

"It helps me count," said Holly defensively. "You've put on twelve pounds, Dave."

"Twelve?" spluttered Lister. "Is that normal?"

"Yes," Rimmer replied. "But I wouldn't consider anything about your case normal. The average weight gain for a pregnancy is anywhere from twenty-five to thirty pounds. It's more with twins, though—around thirty-five to forty-five pounds."

"I knew that," said Holly, nodding.

The Cat rolled his eyes. "Sure you did, blondie."

"Forty-five pounds?" Lister repeated uncertainly.

"And that's if you're healthy, which you aren't. And you always gain more with twins, obviously. No, I bet you'll put on two stone just to begin with and the rest will come later." Said Rimmer. "But it'll be more if you keeping eating the way you have been."

"Really?" said the Cat. "I'll bet you my fish earrings that he puts on three stone."

"Deal," said Rimmer, who didn't actually give a smeg about the earrings.

"I can't believe this," said Lister, stepping off the scales. "You're placing bets on me?"

"Come on, miladdio. We all deserve to have a small portion of the fun you're having," exclaimed Rimmer cheerily.

"I'll bet three and half stone," said Holly.

"Holly!" said Lister, outraged.

"Sorry, Dave. But I have always admired those earrings."

"Leave me alone," said Lister heatedly.

"Temper, temper," said Rimmer smugly. "Don't worry—in time you might at least regain the emotional control of a thirteen year old girl. Once the hormones settle down, that is."

"What do I do now?" asked Lister sulkily.

"Now I need you to take your blood pressure," said Holly.

"All right," said Lister, sitting down at the bench at the medicomp and sticking his left arm into the machine, which automatically began to tighten around his arm just above his elbow until it was so tight he could feel his heart beating in his arm. This lasted several seconds before the machine released its grip and Lister let out a breath of air in relief that he didn't know he was holding.

"You have mild hypertension," said Holly. "It's normal to have that. Just take it easy, don't overexert yourself—" Holly stopped to think. "Never mind, just keep up what you're doing and you should be fine."

Lister extracted his arm from the machine. "Now what?"

"Now we find out for sure how much longer you have," said Holly. "Arnold, call up some skutters. We're going to need help with the ultrasound."

"Ultrasound?" said Lister, looking around, as Rimmer went off to summon the skutters. "I didn't know we had one of those. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, we have one of those sound thingies," cried the Cat. "But where's a good serger when you need one? It's a nightmare to sew those seams by hand!"

"They're coming," said Rimmer. "But they might be in a bit of a temper—I made them leave during one of those John Wayne movies."

A few seconds later, two of the skutters rolled into the Medi Lab and over to the examination table, and Lister followed. One skutter purposely glided over Lister's foot as it went to go help the other skutter set up the medi-scan, which could perform a variety of tasks, from taking an anal temperature reading to telling you what color the inside of your spleen was, if you ever fancied to know.

"So, what do I do?" said Lister, sitting on the edge of the examination table.

"Just lie back and roll your shirt up, the skutters will take care of the rest," said Holly.

"That's reassuring!" said the Cat sarcastically.

Lister did as he was told, and a skutter used its three-clawed beak to apply a generous amount of a strange blue-tinted jelly over his stomach. It was cold once it was applied.

"What is this stuff for?" said Lister, looking at his raised stomach in interest.

"It helps the ultrasound image to turn up," Said Holly.

One skutter switched a few switches on the medicomp while another began to move a transducer over Lister's stomach. An image suddenly appeared on the screen, and they all looked up in interest. It was the John Wayne movie the skutters had been watching, _El Dorado. _

"Hey, do you guys mind?" said Lister, annoyed.

A skutter reluctantly moved a few more switches and the room was suddenly filled with a weird, swooshing, off-beat rhythm.

"What's that?" said Rimmer and Cat together, looking wildly around the room.

"That's their heartbeats," said Holly, smiling wryly. "Two distinct beats. Catchy, innit?"

"Really?" said Lister. He listened for a few seconds, an enthusiastic smile coming over his face. "Two beats? So it really is twins, then?"

"Don't act so surprised," said Rimmer. "We already knew that. Future echoes, remember?"

"I know. This just makes it seem so much real," said Lister, before adding, as if to be sure of their existence, "That's them? They already have heartbeats?"

"They have more than just a heartbeat," said Holly. "They'll have developed just about everything to some degree now, internal organs and all. They'll even have eyebrows and eyelashes."

"No way," said Lister, regarding his belly with a new appreciation. "They have all that already?"

"And we have visual!" said Rimmer, pointing to the medicomp screen and staring for a moment.

"Well," said Holly. "They're definitely boys, Dave."

Lister turned his head toward the medicomp screen, half expecting to see the John Wayne movie on again. But he instead gave a small, surprised jump instead and his breath caught in his throat. He felt his heart skip a beat. He didn't believe what he was seeing.

There, on the screen, were two distinct shapes. The shapes were definitely taking human form. He could make out the curve of their backs and their small limbs, and their profiles—the fragile looking facial features that were still developing.

Lister watched and listened in complete wonder for what seemed like an eternity. The others remained respectfully silent, watching the screen almost as intently as Lister.

"They're fully formed," Holly commented. "All they have to do now is grow."

Lister was hypnotized by the sound of the two heartbeats. It was hard for him to believe they had each already developed a working heart. His eyes were glazed over, unblinking, at the screen. There they were. Jim and Bexley. One of them, he guessed it was Jim, was wiggling quite a bit, waving one arm lazily. Bexley moved every now and then, but for the most part seemed to be sleeping. It was all just so surreal.

This experience gave Lister a different perspective, now that he could actually see them, and he felt peaceful, happy, excited even. It occurred to him that soon he would no longer be the last human. He was saving his race from extinction in a new and original way—one he had never dreamt of in his wildest of dreams. And it would definitely be a lot less lonely now with the crew nearly doubled.

Lister didn't know how long he laid there, staring at the screen, feeling more content with where he was in his life than he had felt in years. For the first time in his memory, his life had finally had some sort of direction, a purpose for his existence, other than bumming around space drinking lager, eating curries and finding idiotic ways to pass the time. He was actually going to be a dad, or mum, or whatever he was.

He would be responsible for the direction of two lives, which was more responsibility than he had had in his entire life. To be quite truthful with himself, it scared him. He would be raising Jim and Bexley alone, more or less. Rimmer couldn't touch anything, Holly could only offer her rare senile bits of advice, and the Cat claimed he was allergic to babies, or anything that could puke on one of his suits for that matter. But Lister knew that this massive responsibility was different. He wouldn't screw this up. He _couldn't _screw this up. This was quite possibly one of his last chances to do something meaningful with his life. This _was _his life from that moment on, the two dim figures on the screen before him.

Holly spoke suddenly. "Dave?"

Lister didn't look up. He was tracing one of their profiles on the screen with his finger. "Dave?" said Holly again.

It took Lister several seconds to acknowledge that someone had said something. "Eh?" he finally mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen, lost in his own thoughts.

"Would you like to know how long until they're due to be born? I've figured it out."

Lister grunted in response and Holly said, "I estimate it'll be about four and a half days."

"_What?" _cried Lister, finally tearing his eyes from the screen and looking at Holly in alarm as her words sunk in.

"That'll come out to nine days from start to finish," said Holly. "The pregnancy is progressing at a rate of one month a day. You're in the second trimester, fourth month."

"How big are they, then?" asked Lister, pointing at the screen.

"The twins are each around ten inches long and weight about three point five ounces each," said Holly.

"Really?" said Lister, surprised. He regarded his stomach with a new appreciation.

"B-b-but—four days! That's not nearly enough time!" babbled Rimmer. "I thought we had months of preparation! The skutters aren't ready to perform a caesarean yet! They can't even hold the scalpel properly. They may as well be using a machete! I thought they'd have months to master the operation. Frankly, if they were to do the surgery in four days, Lister would be cut up and all of the skutters couldn't put him back together again."

"Just like Humpty-Dumpty!" exclaimed the Cat brightly.

"We have to do something!" said Lister, panicked. He sat up and grabbed a white cloth from beside the medicomp and wiped the gel from his stomach as the skutters turned off the medicomp. "Isn't there some way to slow it down until the skutters are ready?"

"I'm afraid not," said Holly. "We can't change physical laws between universes. But maybe there's someone else who can help."

"I can't," said Rimmer quickly. "I'm a hologram, I can't touch anything, as I am bitterly reminded every day."

Lister, Cat, and Holly all stared at the Cat, who backed up defensively. "You don't mean me, do you?"

"We haven't really got much of an option," said Lister.

"No way, dog-food breath. This Cat does not do anything that involves putting those unfashionable plastic gloves on my beautiful hands and toying around in someone's guts."

"You're my only hope," said Lister. "Though I'm not sure I can trust you much more than the skutters. If I ever turn my back on them I get a needle in me bum—they can't aim at all, see."

"Well, if you don't trust me than I'm definitely not helping," said Cat, crossing his arms and sticking out his lip, turning away from them.

"If I said I trusted you, then would you help with the delivery?" asked Lister.

The Cat thought for a moment. "No, sorry buddy," he said finally. "You monkeys can work something out."

"Five days," Lister repeated. "I thought we had months of preparation. There's still so much to do, I'm not smegging ready for them to come so soon, neither are the skutters. We don't have anything babies need, no nappies, clothes, bottles, toys… where will they sleep? I'm not smegging ready…" Lister repeated.

"I have something you can use. Remember when we used to play the locker game? One day you got a priceless selection of baseball trading cards, a wad of cash, and a gold nugget. Do you remember what I got? A blue pacifier from Brannigan's locker, a handful of safety pins and a tube of Bourgon's Butt Paste."

"Oh yeah," said Lister, laughing. "Good times those were."

"There's some silver thermal blankets and material that you could make cloth diapers out of in that medical cabinet over there," said Holly.

"Great," said Lister, feeling slightly more cheerful. "Anything else?"

"Not that I know of," said Rimmer. "We could always look around in the storage decks later. We might find something useful down there."

"Good idea," said Lister, swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the examination table. "Let's go down there tonight. Maybe we can find clothes or bottles or something."

"Is that really necessary?" asked Rimmer, an odd, slightly disturbing smile coming over his face.

"Is what really necessary?" asked Lister, annoyed.

"Finding bottles," said Rimmer.

"What do you mean, Rimmer?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No," said Lister. "Enlighten me."

"Well, I don't want to beat about the shrub…." began Rimmer.

"Bush, Rimmer. It's beat about the bush. Now stop beating and start telling."

"Are you sure?" said Rimmer, in the same annoyingly superior tone he often got. "You're not going to like it."

"Rimmer—" said Lister, his voice rising. "What the smeg are you on about?"

"Well, bottles may not be the highest item on our long list of troubles. There's always—dare I say it—nursing."

"Nursing?" Lister repeated daftly. "Why would I want to go into nursing? If we had a nurse than none of the skutter problems would be an issue."

"Not that kind of nursing, you gimboid," said Rimmer.

Lister thought for a moment. It looked hard. "You don't mean…"

"I do," said Rimmer, nodding. "It appears—perverse and impossible as it may seem—that the only other feasible alternative is breastfeeding."

There was a long, awkward silence. The Cat broke the uncomfortable silence, "This is getting too messed up. I'm outta here." He backed slowly away and then retreated as fast as he could.

Lister shook his head furiously, as if trying to clear out his ears. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're sick, did you know what ? You are truly _sick."_

"What?" said Rimmer defensively. "Is it sick for when women do it?"

"No," said Lister. "But it's natural for them. That's what they do."

"You're forgetting the fact that the twins were conceived in a parallel universe where roles of men and women are reversed. Therefore, you have taken on all the roles of the men from your female opposite's universe, where it is entirely natural, as you say."

"You know what?" said Lister, "I think you're enjoying this way too much. You're seriously disturbed, Rimmer. You need help. Look, I'm a guy. I haven't got breasts and therefore can't nurse. I don't have the equipment. Simple as that."

"Oh, really?" said Rimmer gleefully. "Have you looked in the mirror lately? Those hormones do have certain side effects. Besides, when you found out you might be pregnant in the parallel universe you said that same thing, that you didn't have the equipment. Now look at you, you're a blimp! Arlene even said it—you have all the equipment, and she meant _all _of the equipment. It's the exact same thing with this."

"No way," said Lister flatly. "Not happening. Not with this guy. Is it a crime that I want to walk out of this was some shred of dignity?"

"So you're afraid your masculinity will suffer, so what," said Rimmer, waving his hand dismissively. "I read up about this just this morning, and I couldn't wait to tell you the good news. There are loads of benefits for mother and child. Apparently babies who are breastfed have an average of eight IQ points than babies who aren't, they are also usually more healthy because of the nutrients and antibodies they get. Their stomachs can't handle anything else yet. It is also considered a bonding experience. And it helps the mother to loose all the baby weight much quicker by burning an extra five-hundred calories a day. See, Listy? There's plenty of advantages."

"The only thing I can see is that you've lost your smegging mind," Lister mumbled.

"You want what's best for them, don't you?" asked Rimmer accusingly.

"Of course I do, Rimmer," said Lister. "But this—this is just too much!"

"It's the only option," said Rimmer.

"You're completely disturbed. Look, they can just have cow's milk."

"We're fresh out of cow's milk, Dave, remember?" said Holly.

"All right, some kind of formula, then," said Lister hastily, clapping his hands together. "Problem solved."

"We haven't got any formula," said Holly. "Red Dwarf has never had any, being there's never been babies on board before."

"Water?" said Lister, feeling slightly panicked now.

"It has absolutely no nutritional value," said Rimmer.

"Can't they just go straight onto solid food?"

"Don't be daft, Lister," said Rimmer. "Their stomachs simply can't digest anything else for quite some time. They can't attempt eating solid food for six months, not until they have some teeth."

"I'd have to keep it up for _six months?" _said Lister uneasily. "No smegging way. What about dentures?"

Rimmer answered Lister's stupid suggestion with a stern stare. "I'm surprised that it's come as so much of a shock to you. I mean, it's not news to you, is it? Did you honestly think that the only reason women have them is to give the men something to goggle at?"

"No," said Lister, flustered. "I know what they're for. I just thought, with all reason, mind—that it'd never apply to me,"

"Well, it does now," said Rimmer, smirking.

"There must be something," cried Lister, in desperate denial.

"There's still plenty of dog's milk, but that's about it," said Holly.

"But what kind of selfish, heartless bastard would make their children drink dog's milk when there's another alternative? You've done this to yourself, you know."

"Wait," said Holly. "I just remembered. We don't have the dog's milk anymore. Dave, you insisted that I flush it all out into the vacuum of space. It instantly froze, leaving a huge dog-milk asteroid for some future species to ponder over."

"Smeg," said Lister, not able to meet Rimmer's superior gaze.

Rimmer smiled triumphantly. "Aw, the smell of defeat. It's so lovely when it happens to someone else!"

"Black card, Rimmer," said Lister, feeling sick to his stomach. "I can't take anymore right now. I'm practically a transvestite!"

"But there's still—"

"Black card!" Lister shouted, sticking his fingers into his ears he turned and marched out of the Medical Lab, once again singing, "Black card situation, end of conversation!"

Once away from Rimmer, he paused in front of a mirror. Lister sighed in defeat. "I'm going to need some serious therapy after this," he said to thin air.


	6. A Completely New Lifeform

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor

**Day 4, Part 4**

Lister was lying dejectedly in his bunk, his hands behind his head and his feet up against the wall, staring absently at the ceiling of his bunk. The ancient news from Groovy Funky Channel 27 was on, but Lister wasn't really paying attention to it.

"Still moping, are you?" Rimmer taunted, entering the sleeping quarters along with the Cat and breathing deeply through his flared nostrils.

"Just leave me alone," said Lister moodily.

"We were just coming to see if you were up to a game of—" the Cat began, but he was cut off by Holly, who had urgently appeared on the wide monitor.

"Emergency! Emergency!" she said. "There's an emergency!"

"What is it, Hol?" said Lister at once, sitting up and frowning concernedly at the monitor.

"I have sensed a non-human life form on board," said Holly. "I've just opened the radiation seals to the cargo decks, and there's something down there. I can only see it on the heat scanner. I don't know what it is, I only know what it isn't."

"What isn't it?" cried the Cat.

"It's not human. I don't know what it is," Holly admitted. "I don't recognize it's genetic structure."

"Aliens!" shouted Rimmer, pumping his fist. "It's got to be aliens."

"Shut up," Lister snapped. "Where is it, Holly?"

"It's down in the cargo bay and appears to be momentarily stationary. It might be asleep. You lot might be able to sneak up on it if you're careful," she reported.

"Let's go," said Lister, leaping down from his bunk, pulling on his JMC ship issued black coat and zipping it closed. He bolted out of the room and was followed by the Cat, and then, slightly reluctantly, by Rimmer.

They followed Lister down several floors and corridors, stopping at the nearest mining supply utility room. Lister grabbed a backpack full of supplies and slung it over his shoulders, tossing another one to the Cat.

The Cat stared at the black backpack with the Red Dwarf ship logo with distaste. "This does not go with my outfit at all! I'll need an entire wardrobe change before I can be seen by a non-human life form wearing this!"

"We're wasting time!" Lister shouted, grabbing a bazookoid and checking to be sure it was loaded. "Put it on! We have to move while it's still sleeping! A non-human life form won't give a smeg if your outfit and pack go together or not!"

"Maybe," said the Cat doubtfully. "But what if it wants to go on a date? I don't want it to get a bad first impression that I have no color coordination!"

"Just put it on and grab a bazookoid," ordered Lister, as he strapped on a mining helmet and tossed another one to the Cat. He carefully stepped over some crates and dashed to the door. "Come on."

Rimmer and the Cat hastily followed. "You really should be more cautious, Lister. We don't know what we're dealing with!"

Lister ignored him and continued the long journey down to the cargo bay. He clutched the bazookoid—the heavy portable mining laser—to his chest, and checked again that the pack on his back was registering, 'Full Charge'.

Light flitted through the wire mesh of the rickety lift as it clumsily juddered its way down into the bowels of the ship.

They went down through three miles of lift shaft and over five-hundred floors, most of them stretching the six-mile length of the ship. These were the cargo decks, where all of the supplies were stored. The tiny, exposed cage shuddered and rocked slowly past floor after floor.

They passed twenty floors of food, vacuum-sealed tin mountains that stretched out beyond their vision. Down. They passed four floors of wood—a million chopped trees stacked in silent pyramids. They went past floors of mining equipment, floors of raw silicates mined from Ganymede, and floors of water stored in enormous glass tanks.

The only sound was the metallic squealing of the lift cable as it plunged them deeper into the gloomy abyss.

"Holly," said Rimmer, an idea coming to him. "Would you please give me a hologramatic megaphone?"

"Okay, Arn," said Holly, and a moment later Rimmer was holding a large megaphone.

"What do you want that for?" asked the Cat.

"I want to try to make a peace offering," said Rimmer. He switched on the megaphone and they all winced as a high pitched noise issued from the speaker as Rimmer raised the mouthpiece to his face. "Sorry—feedback. Hello—whatever you are. We are the highly brave, distinguished, sophisticated, skilled, and armed crew of the Jupiter Mining Corporation vessel Red Dwarf. We come in peace. Please don't hurt us. Thank you. And if we are indeed on good terms, d'you think you could give me a new body if it's not too much trouble? Thanks again. Please, please don't hurt us. Thanks."

Lister rolled his eyes and raised his watch level with his face. "How close are we, Hol?"

"You're coming up right on it," said Holly.

The gloom enveloped them. The light on Lister's mining helmet cut only twenty feet into the darkness. Lister flipped down the helmet's night-visor and switched the beam to infra red. In the bottom right hand corner of Lister's visor a small green cross began to flicker.

"Oh smeg," said Lister. "There _is _something there."

"Where?" asked Rimmer, looking around wildly.

"Here," said the Cat.

"I'm _so _glad I'm already dead," said Rimmer. "I'm so, so glad,"

The cross crept up on Lister' visor. Lister wanted to say, "It's on this floor," but he couldn't seem to find his voice. He instead raised one gloved hand and pointed straight ahead with a trembling finger.

The lift coughed to a stop. The whine of the motor faded to nothing. The lifts folded open. Lister, Cat, and Rimmer filed numbly out of the lift.

Lister glanced around the deserted cargo bay, squinting into all of the dimly lit parts of the room. Rimmer cowered behind a stack of crates, shaking in anticipation, and the Cat clutched his bazookoid, staring up into the rafters.

"We don't see anything," Lister whispered to Holly. "Are you sure this is where it is? Could it have moved?"

"Moved?" Rimmer gasped. "It could be anywhere! Do something!"

Lister stared hardly over his shoulder at Rimmer. "You really are a sniveling little coward, aren't you?"

"Just a bit, yes," Rimmer admitted. "Especially when there could be an unknown life form lurking about, waiting to pounce and rip out your esophagus and serve it as giblets in gravy."

"What have you got to be afraid of?" asked Lister, his eyes still scanning the room tentatively. "You're all ready dead. What's the worst that can happen to you?"

"He might have to change his underwear," said the Cat.

"I've just checked," said Holly, and Lister looked back down at his watch. "It's definitely there and still stationary. Don't you see anything? It can't be more than twenty feet in front of you."

"How about I try to ease everybody's nerves and impress the alien with our musical tastes with some Reggie Wilson?" Rimmer raised the megaphone to his lips again and began to hum one of his favorite tunes from the Hammond Organ for the alien's appeasement.

"Me and the Cat will just go on and be brave while you cower there, shall we?" said Lister.

"Sounds good to me," said Rimmer.

Lister glanced uncertainly into the dark space in front of him. He stepped cautiously forward, step by step, and he suddenly saw a small shape on the floor. His heart jumped into his throat as he edged closer still, bazookoid raised. What had he gotten himself into?

He got closer and closer to the object, the Cat following close behind him, poised to attack. Rimmer peeked over the top of the boxes, his hands over his eyes, looking at them through the gaps in his fingers.

Lister was now upon the creature. The blip on Lister's visor was pulsing faster than ever. He finger tightened on the beam button of the bazookoid. "It's here. Whatever it is, it's right here!"

He aimed his bazookoid, squinting in the darkness. Lister and the Cat gazed upon the object, long and limp on the floor, and stepped back, lowering their weapons in relief.

"What is it?" called Rimmer, craning his head to see.

"Nothing," said Lister in disbelief. "It's just one of my socks."

Rimmer crawled out from behind the crates and went to join the others now that he knew it was safe. "One of your socks?" he repeated skeptically.

"Yeah," said the Cat, amused. Lister shook his head. "But how'd it get down here?"

"It probably crawled," said Rimmer.

Cat looked at the crumpled sock on the floor. "I wouldn't put it past it."

"Holly, you made us rush down here because one of Lister's socks was on the lose? Well, thanks for the warning, but was it necessary for us to dash down here armed with bazookoids?" said Rimmer.

"Don't you mean we were armed with bazookoids?" said Lister. "All you did was cower in the corner, like you always do."

"Sorry," said Holly sheepishly. "But in my defense, genetically speaking, it is a completely new life form!"

Lister gingerly picked up the sock and smelt it. He gagged, plugged his nose, and held it at arms length. "I think you're right about that, Hol."

Rimmer's knees finally stopped knocking together as his fear slowly subsided. He was now staring at Lister in disapproval.

"What?" asked Lister, holding the toxic sock as far away from himself as possible. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Do you realize what you've just done?"

"Captured a rogue sock?" said Lister uncertainly. "Someone around here has to be brave. Me and the Cat always have to make up for your sad, pitiful, spineless self." The Cat nodded in agreement.

"Well, it shouldn't be you, Lister." Said Rimmer.

"D'you mind if I ask why?" said Lister.

"You're so used to only looking out for yourself. Now you have to think about two more people. Or have you forgotten about the two life forms currently developing in your abdomen?" said Rimmer.

"I haven't forgotten about them!" said Lister, resting a hand on his stomach. "It's not exactly an easy thing to do!"

"Did you even think for one minute about the danger you could have been putting your unborn children in by gallanting off to battle some unknown enmity? You are completely irresponsible."

"It was only a sock!" Lister cried, waving the putrid sock out in front of Rimmer's face, who was very fortunate that he had no sense of smell. "A harmless sock!"

"I wouldn't say that," said the Cat, plugging his nose.

"But you didn't know that!" said Rimmer, ineffectively trying to brush the sock out of his face. "It could have been anything—a murderous rogue simulant out to finish off the last of the human race. Who knows—it could've been Freddy Krueger or even Vincent Price! Did you ever consider what terrible things could have happened because of your carelessness?"

"I guess I didn't," said Lister, looking down at his stomach guiltily. "You're right. I should've thought more about what I was going up against. I should've been more careful. Are you happy now?"

Rimmer was still babbling on as if he hadn't heard Lister. "—Completely reckless. You have a clinical case of arrested development. I've never had the misfortune of ever meeting anyone else as selfish as you—me, me, me. Wait—what did you say?"

"I said you're right," said Lister, his words feeling strange and alien. "I would never purposely do anything that would hurt Jim and Bexley. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to them."

"Well, as long as you realize that now," said Rimmer, who was both pleased and disturbed that Lister had agreed with him for once. "That settles that."

"If you're so concerned about that," said Lister. "You're a bit of a hypocrite, you know that? Why didn't you go on ahead in my place to save me and the boys from the path of danger just for once? Would that've killed you?"

"Oh, very funny," said Rimmer bitterly.

**Day 4, Part 5**

That evening was game night. Tonight's game was salvaging the storage deck for anything that might be of use for the babies who were coming months earlier than anticipated. Rimmer had stayed with Holly in the medical bay, trying to teach the skutters how to perform their duties during the caesarean section. The Cat and Lister went down to the storage decks. Rimmer had given Lister strict orders not to lift any of the crates, to have Cat do everything, and Lister didn't complain. Lister's stomach looked notably larger than it had that morning.

The first hour was uneventful and they found nothing of interest, just a bunch of backup tools and crates upon crates of bath goods, toilet paper, soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and more. There was the occasional odd find, like a garter, a plastic couple from on top of a wedding cake, and a karaoke machine. Lister had just cut open a box full of plastic eating utensils when the Cat called, "Over here, buddy, I found something!"

Lister joined Cat, who was standing over a large cardboard box.

"Yeah? What is it?" asked Lister.

The Cat sniffed the box. "It's mine. I haven't seen this in years." The Cat sliced open the tape on the box with one of his long, manicured nails.

"These were mine when I was just a little kitty," he said. Cat opened the box to reveal a large assortment of baby clothes that had once been his. It was filled to the brim with tiny little suits of all colors and designs.

"Believe it or not," said the Cat. "But I designed and made all of these myself. They're so old they've almost been through the fashion cycle and become stylish again. But I'm not worried—your kids wouldn't know fashion if it danced naked in front of them."

"They can really have all this?" said Lister in astonishment. He held up an immaculately designed lavender suit with silver lapels.

"Sure," said the Cat, sizing the clothes up. "I don't think they'd fit me anymore."

"Thanks, man," said Lister gratefully, hugging the lavender suit to his chest. "These are adorable! Look at the little lapels! Just imagine what they'll look like on them! They're so small and cute!"

The Cat stared at Lister. "All right, who are you and what have you done with dormouse cheeks?"

Lister and Cat looked for a whole hour more. They found few other items of any use to them, except a set of alphabet building blocks, a stuffed bear, a game of Junior Angler, and a pair of linen maternity slacks that Lister was beginning to greatly need—there was no way he'd be able to wear any of his own trousers tomorrow.

They each grabbed an armful of clothes and toys and carried them back to their floor, depositing the items onto Lister's bunk.

"Let's go see how the skutters are doing," said Lister, not quite sure if he even wanted to know.

**Day 4, Part 6**

"No, no, no!" Rimmer was shouting as Lister and Cat entered the Medical Unit. "That's all wrong! If this was the real thing, Lister would be dead!"

Rimmer turned and saw the Cat and Lister standing behind him. Lister's eyes were wide and he looked sick to his stomach as he watched the skutters in their practice. The skutter's head was spinning in circles, waving the scalpel haphazardly, slashing in all directions. To Lister's disgust he saw that the skutters were practicing the incision on a dead pig carcass.

"Where the smeg did you get that?" asked Lister, feeling quite sick now.

"Garbage pod," said Holly. "Amazing what you can find when you dig around, isn't it?"

"I wanted to give them a more accurate simulation than a pillow," said Rimmer. "What if they were shocked to find there were no feathers in the real surgery?"

"I'm dead," Lister muttered. "If those things operate on me I'll be dead, you said it yourself, Rimmer. I have as much confidence in them as a guy going to a fancy restaurant and trusting the valet parker with his 1962 Ferrari."

"No, actually I think they're really coming along!" said Rimmer assertively. "Now if only they could cut open the muscle wall correctly…"

"I can't do it," said Lister, collapsing into a chair. "I don't trust those things. Can't I be put into stasis or something until you find someone trustworthy who can help me?"

"I don't know how our stasis fields will react with the twins," said Holly. "They are from another universe. I don't think it would work. It may actually speed up the pregnancy even more."

"And who knows how long it would take to find someone," Rimmer added.

"Sorry, bud," said the Cat. "It's been nice knowing you."

"You could help," Lister suggested again.

"Like I said," exclaimed Cat. "It's been nice knowing you!"

"I'm going to bed," said Lister, getting to his feet again. "I'm not to keen to see what the rest of my autopsy is going to look like. Clean up when you're done. That cannot be sanitary."

Lister turned and left.

"Oh, you nearly had it!" Rimmer lied, as the skutter swung, sliced, and missed, stabbing the dead pig in the heart.

"It's good thing he didn't see how the circumcision practice is coming along," said the Cat.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

22 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on. Holly says that we only have a few days to prepare for the birth. I've been attempting to train those incompetent skutters how to sew in a straight line today, but all of their efforts come out about as straight as Elton John. It will be a miracle if they're trained in time. Oh, and one of Lister's socks escaped today and caused general wreck, havoc, and mayhem. But there's nothing new there. Tape off.

**AN: I got the idea for the escaping socks scene from the conversation between Holly and Rimmer in Polymorph and I thought that it would make some good filler in the story line, and it was fun to write, too. Some of the descriptions of the cargo decks and the lifts was from **_**Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers, **_**because Grant and Naylor had some great descriptions there. Please review!**


	7. Toastercide

**Disclaimer: Red Dwarf: a creation by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor**

**Day 5, Part 1**

The next day Lister woke up around noon, drenched in a cold sweat. His dreams had been filled with images of skutters laughing, evil and mechanical, waving glinting scalpels, taunting him. The skutters jabbed at his stomach, and Rimmer kept encouraging them. "Great! Marvelous! I think they're finally getting the hang of it! Now, let's just hope that you can put him together again just like we practiced. Oh, and please try not to leave any tools inside him when you stitch him up this time."

It was difficult for Lister to even sit up in bed that morning. It felt to him that his belly had doubled in size since yesterday, and it probably had. He looked down at his stomach and decided that if he had gone to a grocery store he might be accused of being a watermelon thief.

Lister arched his back and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. His foot caught on one of the rungs on the ladder and he fell on his back. He got to his feet unsteadily and brushed off the back of his shirt. Lister stole another glance at his belly as if to check that they were okay, grateful that he had fallen off the ladder backwards instead of forwards.

Lister dug through his locker, trying on every pair of trousers he owned. None of them fit. Lister dug around in the heap of clothes he had slept on last night and found the maternity slacks. He pulled them on. They fit great, but were still baggy enough that he could wear them for the remainder of the pregnancy, and they had no zippers or buttons, which was a plus. He dug through his locker until he found his largest t-shirt and put that on as well.

Lister got a breakfast of sugar puff sandwiches and went to find Rimmer, Holly, and the Cat. They were in the Medical Unit again, teaching the skutters how to do the proper sutures for the operation.

"Those will never hold," Lister heard Rimmer say. "Lister will be walking around spilling his intestines out all over the place."

"He's deader than overalls, man." Said the Cat.

"You lot are awful reassuring," said Lister, alerting them of his presence.

"Oh, good morning, Lis—" said Rimmer briskly, swirling around. He stopped speaking abruptly when he caught sight of Lister, and both his and the Cat's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"What're you looking at?" said Lister defensively, waving his arm aggressively and taking a large bite of his fourth sandwich.

"Oh, nothing," said the Cat sarcastically. "It's just that you look like you swallowed a bowling ball."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a small watermelon," said Holly.

"Really?" said Lister, patting his bulging stomach tenderly. "So was I. Is it really that noticeable?"

"It's more noticeable than a man who tries to smuggle a frozen turkey through airport customs under his plus-fours," said Rimmer.

"Do you think I look fat, then?" asked Lister worriedly, looking critically at his reflection in the empty monitor.

"Fat?" said Rimmer sarcastically. "Of course not. You're just horizontally challenged."

"Thanks, man," said Lister, matching Rimmer in sarcasm. "But seriously—do I really look that bad?"

"Nah," said the Cat, waving a hand. "You look great, buddy!"

"Really?" said Lister hopefully.

"No," said the Cat. "Actually, I think you've doubled in size since yesterday. You're huge! You're bigger than I was just trying to make you feel better. Since when have you cared how you look anyways?"

Lister's brow furrowed in thought. He hadn't felt this self-conscious about anything in his life to his memory, and he hadn't ever yet felt insecurity about his personal appearance ever since he discovered that he was the last human. Who was there to impress that he actually gave a smeg about their opinion? Nobody. "I don't know," he said at last.

"I do," said Rimmer. "Your hormones are out of control and you don't know how to deal with them. So you're really touchy and moody and the littlest thing can put you off. You have extreme mood swings and you're grouchy and irritable. You're an emotional wreck."

"I am not!" pouted Lister, who sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "Take it back!"

"See! You're more of a wreck than the collision in 1864 of Vermont Central trains in St. Albans. It looks like we have less time than we thought," said Rimmer. "Come on skutters, you can't slack off now! Get back to work!"

"Rimmer," said Lister, wiping his face off on the front of his shirt. "Can I switch bunks with you? It was way too hard to get down in the morning, and it's too cramped up there."

"No way are you having my bunk, Lister. Just use the ladder," said Rimmer. "The superior officer always gets the bottom bunk, under any circumstances."

"Really?" said Lister. "I always thought it was the other way around. And I _did _use the ladder. My foot got caught and I fell out of the bunk."

"Oh, I wish I had been there to see that," said Rimmer, sounding deeply disappointed.

"It wasn't funny!" Lister cried. "It could have been really terrible!"

"Terribly funny!" exclaimed the Cat.

Rimmer's laughter vanished suddenly and was replaced with a frown. "You didn't land on your stomach, did you?"

"No," said Lister, shaking his head. "My back broke my fall, luckily."

"Oh, so you should be fine then!" said the Cat. "But it still would've been hysterical!"

"I have a suggestion," said Holly, foreseeing another one of Lister's mood swings coming on. "I was going to mention this soon anyways, when and if I ever remembered. Dave, you should move into the Officer's Quarters. They're much nicer than where you are now. They're painted white instead of that ocean gray or military gray you hate and the bunks are much roomier. And they're much closer to the medical bay for when the big day comes."

"Good thinkin' Hol," said Lister, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. "We're going to need more room. Why didn't we think of this earlier?"

"Probably because only Officers get to sleep in the Officer's Quarters," said Rimmer. "It's strict regulation, unless you happened to be an officer's mistress or you were coming to re-stock their in-room vending machines."

Lister looked around in exasperation. "Well, I don't see anyone here to tell on us! Who gives a smeg about regulation now? The crew's dead. We make the rules, everything's up to us now, remember? I'm going to start moving me stuff out."

**Day 5, Part 2**

Lister stood in front of his bunk, removing his posters and pictures from the wall and piling them up into a cardboard box on top of the few items of clothing he possessed. In a cardboard box he stuffed in his pillow and a blanket he had stolen from the Hilton hotel along with the bed and the rest of the room except for the towels, which he had left simply so he could be clever and ironic.

He found Talkie Toaster buried deep in his luggage locker. He hauled the toaster onto the table, and plugged it in, against his better judgment.

"Howdy doodly doo! Man, is it stuffy in there or what?" said the Toaster, after Lister let him out. "I thought you'd forgotten about me—Talkie Toaster, your chirpy breakfast companion. You do remember me, don't you? Miranda, Saturn, 19.99 plus tax? Hey, you've put on weight since I last saw you. You must have been going to someone else for your toast! Who was it, I'll—"

"This is the deal," said Lister loudly, trying to speak over the Toaster. "There is to be no talk whatsoever of toast."

The Toaster thought for a second. "How about a muffin?"

"When I use the word 'toast,'" said Lister sternly. "I want you to treat of it as an umbrella term for all grillable bread products. I just don't want to put up with any of your crap. _No smegging toast._ I don't want it, I don't need it, and I certainly don't want to waste any more time talking about it."

The Toaster fell silent and pensive.

"Well?" prompted Lister. "Do we have a deal?"

"How about a scotch pancake?"

"_No toast_," said Lister through clenched teeth, one of his eyes twitching in agitation.

"You don't understand!" pleaded the Toaster. "It's my _raison d'etre._ I am a Toaster. I toast bread. It is my meaning. It is my purpose for existence. I toast, therefore I am."

"Oh, and I haven't heard that one before," said Lister sarcastically. "Well now, that's going to have to change or it's back in the storage locker for you. Have we got a deal?"

The Toaster sighed and spun its browning knob while it mulled over the proposition. "Let me get this straight: if I avoid making any references to certain early morning prandial delights, then you will grant me the gift of existence?"

"Pretty much," said Lister, wondering what 'prandial' meant.

"So you wouldn't want me to ask, say, if you would like some toast right now?"

"That's right," said Lister. "That's exactly the kind of question I don't want to be asked. I don't want _any _smegging toast. I never want you to offer me toast again, alright?"

"But if you never want toast," said the horrified Toaster. "Then I will cease to have a reason to exist! My happiness relies solely in serving you toast whenever you desire it. If you never want toast, I have no reason to live! Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"Look," said Lister plaintively. "I'm tired, I'm moody, I'm smegging uncomfortable and I'm pregnant with twins. I've got enough to worry about without you and your toast."

"You're pregnant?" exclaimed the Toaster. "Congratulations! I simply cannot wait to offer toast to them! With any luck, they'll be more polite and have a healthier appetite for toast than you do."

"Shut up," said Lister severely. "You'll leave them alone once they get here. Babies are not interested in toast. No one here is. I don't want toast, the Cat doesn't want toast, Holly doesn't want toast, the skutters don't want any toast, Rimmer can't have any toast. Nobody here wants toast. So do us all a favor and shut the smeg up."

"Temper, temper. Don't get so emotional! Control your anger or your stress level will skyrocket and that is not healthy for you or my future toasted good consumers. Just take a deep breath, in, out, in, out—"

"I'm warning you, Talkie," said Lister through clenched teeth. "I'll say it again—shut the smeg up. I don't want any toast. I've told you a million times, and I don't want you to tell you again."

"Can I just ask you just one last question?"

"Does it involve toast?" asked Lister, his back to the Toaster as he dug through his storage locker.

The Toaster was silent for a moment before it lied, "No."

"Go on then," said Lister, smiling oddly, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Being that I've been in that locker so long, I was just wondering…"

"Yes?" said Lister, his crazed grin widening maddeningly.

"Well, you're well overdue for…"

"Yes?"

"You must feel very deprived of…"

"Don't say it," Lister warned, his eyes flashing manically.

"Toast. Would you like some toast?"

"You had to say it, didn't you?"

Lister raised the fourteen pound lump hammer from behind his back, and delivered the chirpy toaster a ferocious blow, then another, and another, and another, until Talkie Toaster, his chirpy breakfast companion, was now nothing but smashed metal and plastic bits, the voice box and AI chip lying useless on the floor. Satisfied, Lister picked up the bits and put them down the waste disposal, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"There!" he said triumphantly. "The little smegger had that one coming."

Lister looked around the room to see if there was any other possessions of his that he hadn't packed up yet. Ah—the inflatable banana. He'd picked it up on planet leave once, because he thought that the drab, gray sleeping quarters needed a little bit of color to liven it up. It had made Rimmer very uncomfortable at first. Rimmer would take the banana down, deflate it, and stash it away. Lister would inflate it again and hang it up. It had been an ongoing battle. Now that Rimmer was a hologram and couldn't touch anything, he had to live with the banana, and Lister had ultimately won the battle.

Lister walked over to the hanging banana and stood on tiptoes to lift the banana from its hook, when he felt a swift movement in his abdomen that was surprisingly painful and caused Lister to let out a yelp of pain.

Rimmer heard Lister cry out and was by his side in seconds. "What is it?"

Lister was staring down at his stomach, clutching it with both hands. "I think one of the little buggers just kicked one of my kidneys. It hurt like hell."

"You can feel them moving?" asked Rimmer inquisitively.

"I guess I can now," said Lister. "Before it almost felt like a kind of fluttering, like you get before you have to go up on stage or something. You know, like butterflies in your—" Lister stopped speaking, wincing again.

"Another one?"

Lister nodded painfully and rolled up his shirt, "Maybe we can see it,"

They both stared at Lister's round stomach for several moments. Nothing happened. "Maybe they're done," said Lister, rolling his shirt back down. He suddenly cringed again. "They got me in the ribs that time…"

"Are you sure that—"

"They wait until we're not looking!" Lister cried. He repeated the process several times to demonstrate. Lister would lift up his shirt, and Rimmer would look very unimpressed when he saw no motion across the surface of Lister's stomach. But the second Lister would let his shirt back in place, one of the twins would kick. He made a motion like he was going to put his shirt down again, but then quickly raised it back up.

"There, got him!" said Lister excitedly, and they were both able to clearly see the side of Lister's stomach rise slightly, like a ripple on the smooth surface of his skin. "Look! Did you see that?"

"I think so," said Rimmer in astonishment, leaning forward for a better look.

"Amazing, isn't it?" said Lister softly.

"Quite," said Rimmer, in awe of what he was witnessing.

"It feels incredible," said Lister, placing his hand over his stomach, feeling the small kicks against his hand. "Oh, I wish you could feel this, Rimmer. It looks like they'll be named after Jim Bexley Speed for more than one reason. Those kicks are strong, they'll make good football players. You can't really see it very well, but I can sure feel it."

Lister grabbed the banana off the hook and deflated it, adding it to his cardboard box. He picked up the box and headed for the Officer's Quarters.

"Lister, I thought I told you, no lifting." Said Rimmer. "It puts too much strain on you and the babies."

"It's not heavy," said Lister, shrugging his shoulders. "And I'm sure it doesn't put as much strain on them as they do to my bladder. I have to pee more than a blue collar worker during happy hour at the local pub."

Lister entered the officer's quarters and looked around, impressed. The bunks were much roomier and the entire room was painted white. The room was at least twice as big as their old quarters. There was a nicer table with chairs than they had, and there was even a microwave. Lister had an embryo refrigeration unit wheeled in from the Medical Unit. He thought it could easily be converted into a fridge once it was sterilized.

Lister went to put his belongings into the bottom bunk, and found that Rimmer's possessions were already there, his bed was perfectly made, not a crease to be seen in his starched white sheets. The walls of this bunk were too decorated with Rimmer's swimming certificates and the sayings like 'ARNOLD DOES IT BEST,' that Rimmer had obviously cut from a magazine.

Lister looked around to make sure Rimmer wasn't in the room, and then transferred all of Rimmer's stuff to the top bunk, just for the time being, until he didn't need a lift to get him in and out of bed anymore.

**Day 5, Part 3**

Later that day Rimmer left the skutters to continue their practice and went to check in on Lister. Rimmer found Lister in the new sleeping quarters, looking more than agitated.

"What's wrong now?" asked Rimmer jadedly, sitting down on the bunks and watching Lister disconcertingly chew the end of one of his dreadlocks.

"Nothing," muttered Lister, pacing around the room.

"You're lying again," sang Rimmer. "Right now, you can't hide your emotions any better than you can hide that stomach of yours. I can tell something's bothering you."

"It's… it's nothing," said Lister, irritated. "It's none of your business."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" asked Rimmer.

"No, not really," said Lister, sitting down and swiftly crossing his legs to the best of his ability. He placed a magazine on his lap, pretending to be interested in an article on quantum physics.

"Since when have you been interested in physics?" asked Rimmer disconcertedly. Then it dawned on him. "Ohhh…"

Lister shifted the magazine again, embarrassed. "I can't help it, man. It smegging won't go away."

"You're right," said Rimmer. "There isn't much we can do about that. Especially since Inflatable Ingrid has a puncture."

"Is it normal?" asked Lister self-consciously.

"Yes, I read in that book that it is quite common to become sexually frustrated when you're pregnant, to have an increased libido, " said Rimmer. "Didn't you get enough in the parallel universe?"

"That doesn't even count, man," said Lister defensively. "That was me. Deb is just the female version of me."

"Well, have you tried, umm…" said Rimmer, jerking his head to the side twice. "You know."

"I can't, it's no good," said Lister agitated. "I just can't, not now, not with…" he trailed off, looking at the opposite wall helplessly.

"I see," said Rimmer. He and Lister were determinedly not looking at each other now, neither of them were able to believe they were actually having this uncomfortable, horribly awkward conversation.

Lister stood slowly, still holding the physics magazine in front of his crotch. "I'm just going to—em—go take a cold shower."

"You do that, Listy," said Rimmer. He shook his head once Lister had left. "I should never have asked."

Rimmer entertained himself by reading _A Not At All Nasty Guide to Your First Pregnancy _while Lister was in the showers. So far, according to the book, Lister had been going through all of the things the book had described, in some cases even more intense because he was carrying twins.

Fifteen minutes later Rimmer glanced at his watch. How long was Lister going to be in there? What was taking him so long?

Rimmer jumped when the door to the washroom suddenly burst violently open.

Lister came out of the back washroom, tying his bathrobe loosely around his middle. His hands shook as they fumbled with the belt of his bathrobe and his eyes were wild.

"Any better?" asked Rimmer, not looking up from his book. "I was just reading again. Did you know that identical male twins are the rarest type? And I bet you didn't know that twins are most common in people of African descent, if they are above average weight, twenty-five or older, and also--"

"Yeah, that's interesting and all," interrupted Lister, an edge in his voice. "But I was just thinking…"

"What is it now?" asked Rimmer, closing the book and rubbing his eyes.

"I'm starting to really freak out, man," said Lister, pacing around the room, his sodden locks dripping water steadily onto the floor. "I was thinking in there—about everything you and the Cat said the other day. Everything will be different. I don't know what the smeg I'm doing. I couldn't even keep me rubber plant alive, let alone two little babies. I'm not ready to be a father."

"Technically, you won't be a father," Rimmer pointed out. "You are the male, but have clearly have taken on the role of the mother. Deb is the fertilizer, and therefore the father. It's all rather confusing, actually."

"You're confused?" cried Lister, exasperated. "How d'you think I feel? I never thought this would happen to me. How could I do this to myself? Me body feels like it's been on a physical and emotional roller coaster the past few days. I've lost all control over it. I just can't get to grips with everything—just knowing that I have two living things growing inside of me that will be my responsibility for the rest of me life scares the hell out of me. I know nothing about kids. What if I'm a terrible parent? What if I let them down? What if they hate me?"

"Poppycock. It's all so new to you," said Rimmer sympathetically. "Once it all sinks in and the babies are here I'm sure that you're going to get into the swing of things and figure everything out."

"But it's just me," cried Lister. "I'm on me own raising these kids. It's not just one baby, Rimmer. It's two!"

"Just be grateful that you're not having triplets," said Rimmer. "Or the poor child would most likely be named Speed. Look on the bright side, Listy. It could always be worse."

"How can it be any worse?" said Lister feverishly. "I have no idea what I'm doing!"

"Am I getting paid by the hour for this therapy session?" asked Rimmer, looking at an imaginary wristwatch.

Lister ignored Rimmer and continued. "Sure, there's you and the Cat. But you can't touch anything and the Cat wants nothing to do with them. No one can help me by getting up in the middle of the night to change nappies or give them their feed."

"Amen to that," said Rimmer, wiping his hologramatic brow. "But we can help you somehow..."

"No you can't!" cried Lister hysterically. "I'm going to be a single parent mother!"

"Just calm down," said Rimmer, holding up his palms as a sign of peace. "We'll do whatever we can to help."

"Yeah," Lister wailed, waving his arms. "Nothing. You two can do absolutely nothing, smeg all, so you will be doing everything you can, eh?"

"Listy, sit down and relax," said Rimmer calmly.

"No!" said Lister, stubbornly crossing his arms and taking a wide stance.

"Sit down."

"No!"

"David, please sit down and relax," said Rimmer smartly.

Lister slowly sat down on the bunk, looking at Rimmer as though he had suddenly grown a second head. "You called me David," he said in disbelief.

"That I did," said Rimmer, nodding. "But I also got you to sit down."

Lister suddenly realized he was sitting. "Oh, so you did."

"Listen to me," said Rimmer, finding it hard to believe that he was actually comforting Lister. "All of these insecurities, all of these doubts, they're all temporary, just you wait and see. Everything will be fine. And I promise that the Cat and I will do anything we can to help out."

"Really?" asked Lister cautiously, scanning Rimmer's face doubtfully.

"Really," said Rimmer, smiling.

"You promise?" said Lister, disturbed at Rimmer's unusual smile.

"I promise," said Rimmer. "Better now?"

"Yeah," said Lister, blowing his nose noisily. "Thanks, man."

"Just one condition," said Rimmer, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

"What's that?" asked Lister, now dabbing at the corners of his eyes.

"Never use my pillowcase as a handkerchief again." Said Rimmer.

Lister suddenly realized that he had indeed just blown his nose into Rimmer's favorite pillowcase. Lister began to pry the fabric apart.

"Please don't look at it," Rimmer pleaded.

"Sure thing," said Lister, closing the cloth hastily. "Sorry about all that."

**AN: Oh, I had soooo much fun writing this part! I thought that having Lister and Rimmer switching sleeping quarters was the perfect way to bring in the story of Talkie's demise. Some toaster scene ideas are from And I also like the Lister and Rimmer parts that I put in, but that's just me. **


	8. Abandoned

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Grant/Naylor

**Day 5, Part 4**

Lister entertained himself for awhile afterwards by listening to Rasta Billy Skank while laying in the bottom bunk, placing a wooden alphabet block on his stomach, and waiting for one of the twins to kick it off. Lister picked up the letter K block and laid it again on his stomach and waited. Lister cheered as he felt the kick and the block tumbled off his stomach and out of his reach on the ground along with Q, P, Z, and Y.

"I think that was the best one yet," said Lister to his belly.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself. Who are you talking to?" asked Rimmer as he entered the quarters, carrying an album. "And why are you in my bunk?"

"Just for a few more days," said Lister. "Watch this, Rimmer, it's really impressive." He took the O block and placed it just right of his belly button. A few seconds later the block went flying across the room, landing even beyond the K block.

"Yes," said Rimmer. "Very exciting. I, however, have something that will be much more beneficial to their intellectual well-being than kicking blocks around and listening to Rasta Billy Skank."

"They like it," said Lister. "I can feel them wriggling like mad, I think they were dancing,"

"Or trying to issue an SOS distress call, more likely," said Rimmer. The sound of Reggie Wilson's Hammond Organ suddenly filled the room. "Ah, now there's some brain stimulation for them. Did you know that a baby can hear everything that's going on from inside the womb? Well, what better thing is there for them to hear than the Hammond Orchestra?"

"Hitler's Nuremberg speech for one thing," said Lister. "They don't like it. You see what you've done? They've stopped dancing. I think they're attempting to strangle themselves with their umbilical cords rather than listen to this smeg,"

"They're probably soaking it all up," said Rimmer. "Expanding their intellectual capacities…"

"Actually, I think it's putting them to sleep," said Lister. "Good thing, too. I was just ready for a nap."

"Did somebody say nap?" asked Cat, as he gracefully swirled into the room. "Nice place you got here! I might consider stealing your bunk when you're not looking!"

Cat squeezed into the bunk beside Lister. "Move over, Buddha-belly. Hey, these bunks are really nice!"

"Speaking of which," said Rimmer. "Have you considered where the babies are going to sleep after they're born? No way are they sleeping in our bunks. . There's not enough time to make something for them to sleep in, not that any of us would know how to make something in the first place."

"There's a lot of bunks on this ship, or they can share my bunk," said Lister.

"Letting them sleep in _your _bunk?" said Rimmer. "You can't be serious."

"I am," said Lister. "I mean, what else have we got? I mean it might be kind of cramped but we can work something out. Wherever they end up sleeping it has to be nearby so I can hear them if they start crying or something."

"We'll figure something out," said Rimmer. "Lister, I've been meaning to ask you something: I read that twins are common in families that have a history of twins. Would you happen to know if, say, your mother or father had any twins in their families?"

Lister shook his head and said soberly, "I've got no idea, man. There's no one I could have gone to ask."

"Why?" said Rimmer and Cat together.

"I was abandoned," said Lister.

"Abandoned?" Rimmer repeated, aghast.

"Six weeks old. A cardboard box underneath the pool table. I was just abandoned in this pub," said Lister solemnly.

"How could anyone do that?" said Rimmer, shaking his head in disbelief.

Lister shook his head. "I don't know. I never found out."

"Well, I'd have thought it was obvious," Rimmer gloated, losing all traces of sympathy. "Two people, unable to contain their desires, had an illicit liaison. A liaison that an unforgiving society could not accept. You were the fruit of their forbidden passion. You're forbidden passion fruit."

The Cat and Rimmer snickered.

"What are you saying, Rimmer?" Lister demanded.

"I'm saying, Lister," said Rimmer. "That there's a very high possibility that your parents were brother and sister."

The Cat and Rimmer laughed hysterically.

"Hey, I'm bearing my innermost here! What kind of remark is that?" said Lister indignantly.

"How many toes have you got?" Rimmer asked.

"I've got ten!" exclaimed Lister defensively.

"Yeah, on both feet!" said the Cat.

"Altogether!" said Lister angrily.

"They aren't webbed or anything, are they?" said Rimmer.

"They weren't related, all right!" shouted Lister, forcefully pushing the Cat out of the bunk. "That's the last time I try to share a serious, deeply personal story with you lot."

"Why, have you got any more like it?" asked the Cat from the floor. "Great entertainment, let's hear some more—I'll go get the popcorn."

"Actually, I was just thinking of turning in now," said Lister, hugging his pillow. "'Night."

Lister had trouble sleeping that night. Even though the bottom bunk was slightly larger, he still had trouble getting comfortable and felt very cramped. He tried laying on his back for a few minutes, then rolled over so he was facing the wall. Laying on his stomach was out of the question. He pummeled his pillow in frustration. He finally settled on a somewhat comfortable position with one arm under his pillow and the other over his eyes with his knees slightly tucked in. Lister was just drifting off to sleep when Jim and Bexley resumed their game of football with his kidneys, and he got up to go to the bathroom for what felt like the tenth time that evening. Lister was about to get back into his bed when he had an idea. He eased Rimmer's pillow out from beneath his hologramatic head and climbed back into his bunk, placing the pillow between his knees. He took one of his own pillows and tucked it underneath his belly. He was amazed at how much this helped somehow, and slowly fell asleep.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

23 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on, Holly. We changed sleeping quarters today and Lister took my bunk. I am completely powerless to do anything about it either, with the handicap being dead and all. The grinning little gimboid told me and the Cat a story today about how he was found under a pool table in a pub, abandoned by his mother. Oh, it was hilarious. Explains a lot about him, too. But it still doesn't explain his sudden obsession with the smell of paint chips, petrol and household cleaning solutions. I looked it up, it turns out he has pica. I've had the dispensing machine programmed again by the skutters to add more iron to his diet. Hmmm. I wonder where we might come by two safety seats for the Blue Midget…

Tape off.

**AN: Short update today—just to finish off Day 5. I know that the conversation where Lister tells the others about being abandoned under the pool table is from **_**The Last Day, **_**but I read on the official Red Dwarf website that Lister's story of his abandonment was originally from the lost episode **_**Dad, **_**so I decided to include it here. The official Red Dwarf website said this on March 30, 2007: "**_**Dad**_** is also the original home of Lister's pool table/cardboard box story." Please review, and I'll post more.**


	9. The Terror That Flaps In The Night

**Day 6, Part 1**

Lister was very disorientated. He had woken up to gray, gray, and gray walls for so long now that it was a shock to wake up in the Officer's Quarters and see white, white, and white walls. These quarters were twice the size of their old ones and were made of much higher quality materials. The room was still mostly spotless. He knew that this new environment would take some getting used to.

But what he could never get used to the sound that had woken him that morning. A high-pitched wailing, flapping noise, like some kind of overzealous alarm clock. What was that sound? And where was it coming from?

"Lights,"

The room was illuminated and he groggily opened one eye, waiting for his vision to adjust to the light. As he laid there blinking, bright spots of light dancing in his eyes, he couldn't believe what he was seeing and insinuated that he must still be sleeping. This had to be some sort of ridiculous dream.

Rimmer was standing in front of his bunk. There was nothing new about that. But Rimmer was the one making that earsplitting noise, jumping up and down, frantically flapping his arms like some flightless bird determined to take to the skies.

Lister rubbed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow. "Rimmer, what the smeg are you doing? It's four in the morning!"

"I am the terror that flaps in the night! What does it look like?" Rimmer exclaimed, breathless, momentarily pausing in his screeching. "And I come whenever I feel like! One, two, even three in the morning! The training starts today, miladdio!"

"You're a loony," said Lister, putting his elbow at an angle and resting his head in his hand. "Completely bonkers."

"No, I'm not," gasped Rimmer. "I'm just giving you a taste of what your nights will be like in three day's time. Imagine this times two."

Lister groaned. "Rimmer, there's no way they can be as irritating as you."

"Come on, Listy! Get up and join me in my morning exercises! We'll do fifty jerks to start with. That'll help to wake you up. Besides, you're starting to get podgy."

"Gee, I wonder why," Lister yawned.

"You know, I think that you're nearly twice the size of any pregnant woman I ever saw." Rimmer continued.

"Hmm," said Lister in mock consideration. "D'you think that could possibly be because I'm having twins?"

"Oh, right," said Rimmer, looking slightly embarrassed. "Yes, that might be it. The worst is yet to come. You're only two thirds of the way through it and you're already getting huge."

"Thanks, Rimmer," said Lister wearily. "I hadn't noticed."

"You're putting on unnecessary pounds," Rimmer panted, continuing in his jumping jacks. "Come join me. We'll make a routine of it. Every day, first thing in the morning. Whenever that is for you. That'll help keep your weight in check."

"Rimmer, I never exercised before I was pregnant," Lister laughed derisively. "Why would I start now?"

"I'll tell you why, miladdio. Your concerns aren't just for yourself anymore. You're not just looking after your physical health, but the health of your unborn sons as well."

"I'll be doing them a favor then," said Lister. "I didn't like being woke up early. Neither will they."

Lister rolled over to try and fall asleep again, but Rimmer continued to screech. "What do you think you're doing, Lister? You can't just ignore me!"

"I smegging well can," mumbled Lister into his pillow.

"Waaaaaaa!" Rimmer shrieked. "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Waaaaaake up!"

Lister sat up. "What the smeg am I supposed to do then?"

"You can get up out of bed for a start! Comfort me or something!"

"I can't believe this, Rimmer. Holly," Lister sang. "Do something about him."

"Alright, Dave," said Holly. A moment later Rimmer's mouth was still opened wide as if wailing, but no sound came out. Holly had shut off his voice units.

"That's better," said Lister, wondering why he hadn't thought of silencing Rimmer a long time ago.

Lister slept for another eight hours after his Rimmer wake-up. He only rolled out of bed when the twin's movements were becoming too frequent and distracting inside of him to sleep anymore. He looked in the mirror and felt his smooth face—there was no need for him to shave today. Smegging hormones. He couldn't even recognize himself anymore.

Lister marched up to the dispensing machine. "Good morning. May I take your breakfast order?"

Lister crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Give me a minute."

He closed his eyes and thought. He knew the drill now. He didn't eat what he wanted, he ate what the boys wanted. All he had to do was wait for inspiration—for them to tell him what they wanted.

"Aha, I've got it," said Lister, snapping his fingers. "I'll have two glazed doughnuts with blackberry filling."

"Is that all?" asked the machine, already knowing the answer.

"No, wait—" said Lister, holding up one hand and feeling his stomach with the other. "They also want… pancakes with cream and strawberries."

"And to drink?"

"A mango smoothie."

The machine dispensed the breakfast tray. "Enjoy your meal."

Lister took the tray and headed back in the direction of the sleeping quarters. He slowed down his pace and picked up one of the sticky doughnuts, taking a generous bite. He was looking down and didn't even realize that he had walked straight through Rimmer until he heard his bunk mate loudly clear his throat several paces behind him.

"Excuse me!" scoffed a highly offended Rimmer. "First you have no appreciation for my simulation of what to expect every night when the babies are here, and now you go walking straight through me as though I'm not even standing here occupying this space!"

"Oh, sorry Rimmer," said Lister, wiping frosting off the corners his mouth with the back of his hand. "I see you got your voice back. That's a shame. I didn't even see you."

"Of course you didn't," said Rimmer. "You were much too interested in eating your breakfast and walking at the same time. It's great to be able to multitask, Lister. I once saw a woman who was trying to eat a blueberry muffin, read a copy of Jane Austen's _Emily, _and carry on an argument with her estranged husband on her phone. It was quite miraculous watching her—that is, until she slipped on a banana peel and fell down the subway stairs into the Io Underground. I know that this may be a slightly different situation, but I really do think that you shouldn't be eating all of that junk food. It's pure sugar. It has little to no nutritional value!"

"Yes it does," said Lister, his mouth full. "There's plenty of healthy things here—see? There's lemon filling in the doughnuts, strawberries with the pancakes, mangoes in the milkshake—"

"Lister, everyone knows that's nothing but sugar poorly disguised as fruit," said Rimmer. "You need to be more conscious of what you're eating. You could get diabetes, you know. Not to mention additional weight gain. You only need an extra three-hundred calories a day per baby. Is this really the kind of food that you want them to be having? They need healthy foods—natural fruits, not that imitation lemon and raspberry. They need vegetables, grains—"

"But this is what they want," Lister insisted.

"How do you know?" said Rimmer sharply.

"They told me," said Lister, taking a long sip of his smoothie.

"They told you?" Rimmer repeated in disbelief.

"Yeah."

"It's nothing but sugar!" Rimmer cried. "You've had more doughnuts this week than three police officers could go through in a month."

"They like sugar," Lister insisted. "It's all they want."

"I don't believe it," said Rimmer, shaking his head. "That's just an excuse for you to eat whatever the smeg you want. Well, you'll pay for it later, miladdio."

"Yeah, I'll worry about it later," said Lister, stretching one of his arms behind his aching back.

"And another thing," said Rimmer. "You admitted to me that you know nothing about taking care of babies. I was thinking that maybe today you could try to learn some things—how to change a diaper, how to get them to go to sleep, you know, all of the basics, so that nothing will come as too big of a shock once they're actually here."

"Yeah," agreed Lister, starting in on his second doughnut. "You're probably right. Lead the way."

**Day 6, Part 2**

"There are several things you'll need to know about the care of newborns," said Rimmer. "Today we'll have you learn the basics, Listy—diapering, dressing, all that good stuff. You'll have to learn all of these essential fundamentals, because neither I, the Cat, or Holly will be able to help you. You'll be all on your own."

"Right," said Lister dismally, staring at the table of baby gear laid out before him on a long table in the medical unit. There were cloth diapers, large safety pins, talcum powder, two life-size plastic dolls, thermal blankets, and a number of other nitpicky items. He still couldn't believe he was doing this.

"Are you ready?" asked Rimmer.

Lister nodded slowly, looking determinedly at the table before him.

"We'll begin with cloth nappies 101, shall we?" said Rimmer pleasantly. "Holly, start the tape."

"Alright, Arn," said Holly, and the instructional tape from the medical unit's stocks began, playing cheerful music that made Lister cringe as a smiling blonde woman appeared on the screen.

"Hey!" screeched the Cat. "I wouldn't mind meeting her!"

"Hello," said the woman on the monitor cheerfully. She had a ludicrously tall beehive haircut, with wild, bright blue eyes. She had a bleached smile with unnaturally straight white teeth. "My name is Lucinda Cockrow. Welcome to—" she squinted at the teleprompter. "Welcome to Diapering For Dummies. Today we will start with a beginner's crash course in using cloth diapers for the new young mother."

The Cat nudged Lister, grinning toothily. Lister didn't ignored Cat and Rimmer's smirks, instead fixing his gaze on the screen.

"Okay, dummies, ready to start?" said the woman on the screen, clapping her hands together and smiling so widely it looked as though the sides of her make-up caked face might split. She picked up a square white cloth and placed it in front of her. "Start by placing a clean white cotton cloth in front of you."

"Two in your case, Listy," said Rimmer.

Lister put two clothes in front of him.

"Now—where's the baby?" said the woman on the screen, looking frantically around the set. "Where'd we put the baby? Who has it?"

Confused murmurs of "I don't know," from the stage crew could be heard in the background.

"Oh, right, sorry—here it is," said a stage hand who was eating a large sub sandwich in one hand, handing a wriggling, naked newborn to the woman as if he were passing a clipboard.

The woman received the baby. "Now, place it's bottom around the center of the nappy. If you don't happen to have a real child at the moment, you can substitute it with a doll, a lamp, or even a melon."

Lister grabbed two dolls and plonked them down on the table.

"Lister, you've got to be more gentle than that," said Rimmer.

"They're only dolls," said Lister defensively.

"Be that as it may," said Rimmer brightly. "It is still practice for the real thing."

"I know, I know," said Lister. "I'll try to be more careful."

"Let's begin with the basic angel wing fold," said the hostess. "This fold can be used with any of our pre-folded nappies. It provides excellent absorbency and a trim fit. Now I will briefly explain how to do this appallingly remedial folding sequences and all of you daft, gormless twits at home had better pray that you can keep up with me because I swear that I will only show you once, so help me--"

Lister, Rimmer, and Cat stared in astonishment at the screen as the hostess took a deep breath and flattened down her hair, her sweet smile returning.

"Alright, let's begin," said the woman pleasantly. She gave the directions, talking at incredible speeds, her hands were just a blur as she folded the diaper to fit the newborn. "Fold a small portion of the diaper up on one end. Now fold the sides of the diaper in on themselves over the center panel to form a pad. Unfold the sides at the top to form wings. Place the folded nappy in the center of the nappy cover. Now put the diaper cover under baby. Bring the front cover up between baby's legs. Close it around the baby and fasten for the perfect fit with the clothes pins. Be sure not to poke their plump little thighs. After fastening, check to be sure that all of the nappy is tucked in fully or you will be sorry."

She stopped her tirade, breathless, and smiled. "Now you try."

Lister stared at the woman blankly. "What did she say? How the smeg was I supposed to have followed that?"

"Just try," said the Cat simply. "It can't be that hard. Just think of it like origami!"

Lister doubtfully picked up the corner of one of the diapers with his right hand. He folded two corners over the baby's plastic legs.

"Lister, you're leaving the other one entirely open!" Rimmer shouted.

Lister attempted to fold both of the diapers, one with each hand. Rimmer was barking instructions, constantly correcting Lister as his fingers fumbled clumsily with the cloth. Rimmer was making him nervous as he came to yet another horrible conclusion that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He felt stressed and tired. He just wanted to sleep. His face felt warm and he wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

"Faster! Faster!" Rimmer barked. "You're at two minutes, ten seconds! Now do that twisty whirly thing—no, not like that! That would never work, you gimboid! Now quick, pin them shut!"

Lister fumbled with the safety pins, and somehow miraculously managed to pin them in place.

"I did it!" he cried triumphantly.

"Not good enough," said Rimmer. "Not nearly good enough.

"Be careful with those pins," said the Cat. "If that had been a real baby you would have just jabbed them in the thighs with those!"

Rimmer examined Lister's work. "Those are much too loose," said Rimmer, shaking his head. "Do you want them to lose their pants faster than a lad at Chip and Dales? Do it again. Tighter. And don't forget the talcum powder this time."

Lister did do it again. He felt slightly more confident the second time around. When he was done he felt much more confident with his work this time around. At least he felt that his time had improved, and they didn't look too loose.

"How's that?" asked Lister proudly.

Rimmer looked at the diapered dolls critically. "Your time still isn't good enough. And they're too tight."

Lister stared at Rimmer in disbelief. "Too tight?"

"Yes, they're too tight," Rimmer assured him. "You've cut off the circulation in their legs."

"Oh yeah?" said Lister, folding his arms. "I'd like to see you do better."

"You know I can't."

"Exactly," said Lister smugly, heaving himself up onto the edge of the table. "It'll have to do."

"Well now," said the woman on the tape, coming back onto screen from her coffee break with a pastry in one hand and a tall mocha latte in the other. "Is that enough time for all of you dummies?"

"Now let's move on to dressing your little one," said the blonde woman, picking up the baby. "This is simple enough, so even the most dim-witted of you should be able to figure this out. It is much like dressing yourself only much harder. You put your head through the head hole and the rest should follow. And remember, there is no excuse for an item of clothing not fitting. If it doesn't fit, your baby is either too fat or you're not trying hard enough to force it on. It doesn't matter if an arm ends up in a leg whole, _as long as you get it on. _See? This baby I now have here is six months old. And this sleeper is for zero to three months. But look, if I force it enough, it will work eventually, and you'll save loads of money… _"_

"Where'd they get her?" asked Lister, jerking his thumb at the screen. "She's worse than Martha Stewart."

"I mean," the woman continued, slightly hysterically, a mad look in her eyes. "The tags are more like guidelines, anyway. Just because it says a certain size doesn't necessarily mean that's what your baby will wear. Take me for example. I wear a size nine in shoes and a size eleven in jeans. You see, sizes don't really matter—"

"Bertha?" a man in the back of the studio called, rushing onstage and grabbing her by the arm.

"There she is!" another man shouted, grabbing her other arm.

"Sorry," said a third man to the camera crew. He grabbed one of Bertha's legs, who was now kicking, screaming, and fighting the men with all her might. "She isn't your presenter. She must've slipped out when were attending to another patient next door. We've been looking for her all day."

"We're very sorry about this," said a fourth man, taking her other thrashing leg. "This isn't the first time this has happened. Last week she thought she was a Vanna White. We'll just be taking her back now."

The four men carried Bertha out of the room. A confused camera men stuck his head around the camera and shrugged, and the tape ended and was replaced with the salt and pepper image.

"Tape off, Holly," said Rimmer, and the screen went black again. "Well, I think we've had quite enough of those videos."

Lister nodded in agreement. "She was taking the smeg."

"I know how that is," said the Cat knowingly. "Have any of you ever _tried _catnip?"

"'Course I haven't—" Lister began, but he stomped mid-sentence, stooping over painfully, his jaw clenched, holding his stomach.

"What is it?" asked Rimmer and Cat together.

When Lister didn't answer immediately, Rimmer prompted, "Are they kicking again?"

Lister nodded slowly. He rolled up his shirt curiously, wondering if he'd be able to actually really see the movements this time. He wasn't disappointed.

"Come here!" said Lister, gesturing excitedly for Rimmer and Cat to come closer. "You can actually see it now!"

Rimmer came to his side at once, and the Cat followed slightly more hesitantly. "What're we supposed to be looking at?"

"Just wait," said Lister. "You'll see. You just have to be patient."

They watched Lister's stomach for several long moments, but nothing happened. Cat was just about to leave to find something more exciting to do when it happened. The three of them were able to distinctly see what looked very much like the shape of a small heel cause a disturbance on the surface of his skin. It appeared briefly, then was gone.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" said Lister in wonder. "It's the weirdest feeling—I can't even describe it."

"It is more impressive than last time," Rimmer admitted, slightly afraid to show that he was almost as amazed and excited as Lister.

"Wow," said Cat, as the tiny heel made another brief appearance. "I guess they really are there then, huh? You're not just getting fat like I thought!"

Lister chose to ignore Cat's last comment. He was too happy to allow himself be put into another one of his moods again. He instead set his mind upon wondering which one that had been, or both.

"Here, Cat—" Lister beckoned. "Come feel it. Put your hand just there."

Cat stayed rooted where he was. "No thanks, bud. I'll pass."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," said the Cat. "If I wanted to be kicked, I would kick myself!"

"Oh, come on," Lister urged. "I guarantee it will feel like nothing you've ever felt before, even from the outside."

"Good," said the Cat. "And I think I'll keep it that way!"

**Day 6, Part 3**

"I'm bored," Lister complained from his bunk. The twins had stopped kicking and were now still, most likely sleeping. He already missed the excitement of the show they had put on. He had one hand resting on his stomach, incase they started moving again.

"You need a hobby," said Rimmer, who was once again riding that infuriating hologramatic bike, wearing the skintight biking suit and that infuriatingly unnecessary helmet as well.

"I have hobbies," Lister insisted.

"Like what?" Rimmer panted. "Seeing how much food you can slop down your front whilst still having your shirt maintain its original color? Seeing how long you can go without showering? Watching those smeg awful sappy soap operas and bad B horror flicks? Yes, some fine hobbies you have there, Listy."

"That's not all I do," said Lister indignantly.

" Oh, yes it is. You're _almost _as pathetic as that bloke from Y Shift who's only pastime was watching people's bottoms as they walked by."

"Yeah," Lister grinned cheekily. "But that only bothered you because he had his eye on you, Rimmer!"

Rimmer's already pink face flushed a darker shade of red and he shut his mouth quickly, ignoring Lister and concentrating on his breathing instead.


	10. The Memory Man

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was not created by me.

Day 6, Part 4

Rimmer strode into the sleeping quarters with the infernal book, _A Not At All Nasty Guide To Your First Pregnancy _tucked under the crook of his arm. He took one look at Lister in his bunk, in pursuit of his usual slobbish activities. He was currently eating chips with chili sauce. He tried to toss one of the chips into the air and catch it in his mouth. He missed, and the chip landed on his chest, slopping chili sauce down his front and making his clothing even more colorful. Lister picked up the chip and ate it. He grabbed another handful of chips.

"Eating again, Listy?" said Rimmer, sitting down at the student table and opening his book.

"Yeah," said Lister, trying to wipe off the chili sauce and only succeeding in smearing it into the fabric even more. "That's what you do when you're hungry."

"But you just ate!"

"I did?" asked Lister perplexedly.

"You did," Rimmer confirmed.

"When?"

"It wasn't even forty-five minutes ago," said Rimmer.

"Really?" said Lister, baffled. "What did I have, then?"

"The same thing you're eating right now."

"Rimmer, I think I would have remembered," said Lister, laughing. "I did not just eat."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You did!"

"I'm telling you, Rimmer, I didn't!" Lister insisted.

"And I'm telling you that you most certainly did, miladdio!"

"I know I did!" said Lister. He frowned. "Wait—what were we arguing about again?"

"I was just saying how you've had more consecutive meals than Java the Hut!" exclaimed Rimmer.

"But I haven't!" said Lister, feeling an odd sensation of deja-vu.

"Oh really?" said Rimmer. "Then why is there a tray of chips and chili sauce under your pillow right now?"

Lister lifted up his pillow and pulled out the tray. "Hey, what d'you know?" said Lister. "I'd completely forgotten about it. How's that work?"

"Oh, you're just losing your memory," said Rimmer simply.

"Losing my memory?" Lister repeated, laughing. "Right, Rimmer. Right. I am not losing my memory."

"You are, Lister," said Rimmer. "It's perfectly normal to become forgetful when you're pregnant. It's something about getting all flaky because so much of the blood that would usually be filling your head is going to the babies."

"I am not forgetful," Lister insisted. "I've got the memory of an elephant!"

"A goldfish, more like," said Rimmer. "Just yesterday you were trying to strain the cheese puffs from your lassi and forgot the proper name for a colander and called it the silver holey thing. Then this morning you forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste."

"That's nothing," said Lister dismissively. "Can we maybe talk about something else?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno," said Lister, looking around the room. "Like the new quarters. I think Lennon and McCartney really like it."

"It's bigger," said Rimmer agreeably. "But personally, I still don't think we should be in here. Whether they're dead or not, these are still the Officer's Quarters."

"Well," said Lister. "We won't have to worry about that until they return from the dead or are reincarnated by tiny little robots or something."

"The walls are quite lovely," said Rimmer. "They're very—white. Whiter than the knobbly knees of the President of the Dungeons and Dragons club."

"The bunks are bigger, too," said Lister. "And I need the extra room."

"Of course," said Rimmer. They lapsed into silence. Rimmer was never good at small talk. He would rather clean a public lavatory using only his tongue than make conversation about the weather or the latest cricket scores with the person sitting beside him on one of Io's Central Shuttles.

"How's that?" said Rimmer finally.

"For what?"

"For talking about something else."

"It was alright," said Lister, looking around the room. "So, how about these new quarters? I think Lennon and McCartney really like it."

Rimmer stared at Lister. "You see? You are losing your memory. You really do have pregnancy brain. We just had this conversation not even thirty seconds ago."

"No we didn't," said Lister. "I would have remembered."

"You really are a twit, Lister," said Rimmer.

"You what?"

"Look it up, miladdio. Many people are surprised at the real definition. But that would involve picking up a book on your part."

"Speaking of books," said Lister. "Why do you take that smegging book with you everywhere you go? It's not like it matters to you."

"Because somebody needs to know what's going on around here," said Rimmer. "There's actually something that I wanted to show you. It's this short quiz in the back of the book that I think you should take entitled, '_How Much Do You Know About Babies?'_"

"There's no point. I already know I know nothing," said Lister.

"I know you don't—you don't really know much of anything, do you? Just give it a try," Rimmer urged.

"Alright," said Lister, sitting up. "Shoot."

Rimmer cleared his throat. "Question one: How many hours a day does a newborn sleep?"

"I've got no idea," said Lister. "How many hours is it?"

"Newborns sleep an average of seventeen to eighteen hours a day according to this," said Rimmer.

"Well, that shouldn't be too hard then," said Lister, relieved. "Those are my hours, too."

"Question two: What does SIDS stand for?"

"Wait—I know this one!" exclaimed Lister, biting his lip. "Petersen told me something about this once. Doesn't it stand for Silicon Implants Disintegrate Slowly?"

"No, you moron," said Rimmer. "It stands for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome."

"It stands for what?" exclaimed Lister, a concerned expression on his face. "What is it?"

"It's exactly what it sounds like," said Rimmer. "Infants who die for no apparent reason, usually in their sleep. It's also known as cot death."

"How common is it?" said Lister.

"In this book it says that SIDS is more common with girls," said Rimmer. "But the book is opposite here, meaning that the risk is sixty-one percent higher with boys."

"Do they know what causes it?" asked Lister uneasily.

"No," said Rimmer. "It's one of life's great mysteries—along with the Bermuda Triangle and how Scientology ever caught on."

Lister was growing increasingly worried. "What are the causes? Is there any way of preventing it?"

"There are some factors, yes," said Rimmer, referencing the book. "Some prenatal causes are determined to be inadequate prenatal care and nutrition as well as smoking, so you should be glad you gave that up. Some postnatal causes are a low birth weight, failure to breastfeed, having a baby sleep on their stomach, excess clothing causing the baby to overheat, too much bedding and stuffed animals, being smothered, premature birth….the list goes on and on."

"Just another thing to worry about," Lister mumbled.

"Question three: One of a newborn's basic reflexes is called the root reflex. What is the function of this instinct?"

"Beats me," said Lister, shrugging.

"'The root reflex is the instinct to seek out breasts,'" Rimmer read.

"So," said Lister thoughtfully, "They share a common interest with all guys, then?"

"Question number four: a baby who is receiving enough nutrition should have to have how many nappy changes a day?"

"Hopefully only one," Lister exclaimed.

"Actually, it's six to seven nappy changes a day," said Rimmer. "But that's for one baby. You'll be changing twelve to fourteen nappies a day."

"Oh, smeg," Lister groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Question number five: Can you finish the following nursery rhyme: Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle. The cow jumped over the moon. And the little dog laughed to see such sport, and the fork…"

"Had it off with the spoon?" said Lister. "You know, in the haystacks behind the saloon."

"Who taught you nursery rhymes?" said Rimmer. "Mother Vulgarity?"

"How many more questions are there?" asked Lister impatiently.

"Just two," said Rimmer. "Question number six: what is cradle cap?"

"Some sort of hat?" Lister guessed, somewhat lamely.

"It's when a baby develops patches of dry skin from producing new skin cells faster than they can shed dead skin cells," said Rimmer.

"Ohhhh," said Lister. "You mean like dandruff? Well, Rimmer—you must've been a clinical case, then!"

"Last question!" Rimmer said, scratching his head distractedly. "Babies can swim for a short while after their birth—true or false?"

"True?" Lister guessed.

"Not a chance, Listy. Not a chance," Rimmer's brow furrowed as he looked down at the book. "I don't believe it. It is true! Who'd have guessed?"

"You mean I got one right?" said Lister in disbelief. "Brutal!"

"It's nothing for you to gloat about," snapped Rimmer. "You had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it wrong."

"Or getting it right, which I did!" said Lister proudly. "Is that it, then? What did I score?"

"You got one out of seven," said Rimmer, moving his finger down the page. "The results say that you'd be much better off raising a colony of brine shrimp and working your way up from there."

"No surprise there," said Lister, climbing out of his bunk and slouching off towards the doors.

"Lister, where are you going?" asked Rimmer, swiveling around in his chair as he watched Lister cross the room.

"I'm going to go get something to eat," said Lister, pausing in the doorway. "I think I'll get some cheese puffs and lassi. I'm starving—it feels like I haven't eaten in ages!"

Rimmer rolled his eyes and resumed reading. Outside in the corridor, he heard Lister stop a skutter who was passing by.

"Oy—Bob!" came Lister's voice. "Have you seen that silver holey thing anywhere?"

"It's going to be a long night," Rimmer said to himself.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER—MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

24 SEPTEMBER, 3, 000, 002, 181

Tape on, Holly. I think it is worth noting that my inferior bunkmate, Third Technician David Lister, six days pregnant—now has the memory of a Swedish airline hostess suffering from a combination of Alzheimer's and amnesia. Today was a rather interesting day and we all learned a valuable lesson—avoid self-help videos. Tape off.

**AN: There it is—the conclusion to Day 6. I was going to post this last night, but I ended up going to get vindaloos with a friend and having a Season VII smegfest. There's still plenty more to come, so please review and I'll post more soon.**


	11. Picking Up A Signal

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is not mine.

**Day 7, Part 1**

Lister awoke the next morning after a fitful, uncomfortable night's sleep that had mostly consisted of constant tossing and turning and hourly trips to the bathroom. That morning, he changed into his Mug's Murphy t-shirt, as his London Jets shirt was stretched to its max and half of his stomach was showing.

It was getting increasingly more difficult for Lister to walk. His center of gravity was thrown off because of his vastly protruding stomach, and he now walked with his back to arch and curve unnaturally, trying to compensate for the unfamiliar amount of weight on his front. This change had made him increasingly moody. It didn't help either that Rimmer took every opportunity that he could to goad Lister—usually every time he walked into the room.

Lister decided to have three of his triple fried egg butty with chili sauce and chutney for breakfast that morning along with a can of soda.

Rimmer stepped out into the corridor leading to the Drive Room, when Lister stormed past him clutching a tray of his fried egg chili chutney sandwiches and a can of Cola. Lister didn't even seem to see Rimmer as he went by, his protruding stomach passing through Rimmer's hologramatic body. As Rimmer got a closer look he saw that Lister's eyes were red and damp in the corners.

"Lister?" called Rimmer hesitantly to his crewmate's retreating back. "Is something wrong?"

"No!" came Lister's feisty reply.

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," Lister snapped.

"Are you sure?" asked Rimmer uncertainly.

"Yes! Just leave me alone!" Lister sobbed pathetically, wiping his face on the corner of his sleeve as he turned around the corridor and out of Rimmer's view.

The Cat came suddenly from the same direction Lister had. Rimmer swiveled around and marched up to the Cat so that they were face to face.

"What did you do to him?" demanded Rimmer accusingly. "Don't you know he's in a very fragile state?"

"All I said was 'good morning,' to him!" cried the Cat defensively. "And he went off like a broken spout! That guy has some serious issues."

"Yes," Rimmer agreed. "He has become a bit of an emotional retard. But we have to be patient with him, it'll all pass in time."

"That can't come soon enough," said the Cat. "I've never really known the female of your species—do they all get like this?"

"Yes," said Rimmer. "It's very common. Not only when they're pregnant, a couple days a month as well. And also, sometimes, for no apparent reason at all. It's quite annoying, actually. They become completely unreasonable and irrational and let their emotions get the better of them. They cry over the most bizarre, regular, every day things—like breaking a nail or if someone even looked at them the wrong way. And you'd better start planning your own funeral before you ever make a comment about their behavior."

"Yeah," said the Cat. "But who'd have ever thought we'd have to deal with this with the monkey?"

"You've got a point there," said Rimmer, nodding. "I should probably go see how he's doing—it's a good thing I'm a hologram or I would fear for my safety. I've seen some women hurl priceless works of art when they get upset enough. Madness. Just watch what you say. It's a bad day for him. He's in a very delicate condition."

"You're telling _me_ to watch what I say?" said the Cat incredulously. "You're such a hypocrite. What about all the things you've said to old dormouse cheeks?"

"Like when?" asked Rimmer perplexedly.

"Like first thing this morning," said the Cat.

"What did I supposedly say to him?"

"Oh, something along the lines of, 'Where's your wide load sign and aren't you required by law to have blinkers?'"

"Oh, that," said Rimmer. "That was a real knee-slapper. We had a good laugh over that one."

"You did," said the Cat. "But it set him off."

"Nonsense," said Rimmer. "Lister doesn't mind my witty remarks. He knows that I'm only joking."

"I don't think he does," said the Cat. "'Cuz you're not. Even I've noticed that you're starting to get to him—and I'm the most gorgeous self-obsessed guy I've ever met!"

"We'd better go see how he's doing," said Rimmer, unwilling to take responsibility for the current mood of his bunkmate.

Rimmer looked very amused when he strolled into the drive room and saw Lister with his feet up on the dashboard, reclining back in the chair eating the sandwiches that Lister had found a recipe for in a book on bacteriological warfare. Rimmer had tried one for himself and had to admit that they were surprisingly good.

"So," said Rimmer, as Lister started in on his third sandwich, dripping a generous amount of mango chutney down his chin and onto his shirt. "It does feel like you're having a baby when you eat one of those, eh, Listy?"

Lister patted his sizeable stomach. "Yeah. I'd say it does."

"So, how are you feeling?" asked Rimmer conversationally.

Lister shook his head. "I'm never gonna get used to you asking me that question, Rimmer."

"I'm serious."

"Well," said Lister slowly, opening the can of Cola that on a regular morning would have been his wicked strength lager or a beer milkshake. "Fine, I guess. It's really uncomfortable, though. I couldn't sleep last night. They wouldn't let me. And now I can hardly walk. Me back's sore and me ankles are all swollen, see?" He pulled up the hem of his trousers to expose his inflamed ankles. "And me shoe's don't even fit anymore."

"It looks as if you'd had two sprains," said Rimmer. "I'd stay off my feet if I were you."

"That's what I'm doing," Lister pointed out, as the Cat rolled in on his skates, holding a mirror and admiring his reflection.

"I'm looking good," said the Cat, grinning toothily at his reflection. "Sorry about getting you so upset back there, buddy—whatever it was that I did."

"Oh, that," said Lister, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "I'm okay now. I don't know what got into me. Besides, it was more Rimmer than you."

"See?" the Cat hissed to Rimmer. "I told you."

"Poppycock," Rimmer muttered back.

"So, now that that whole thing's over—what's the plan for the day?" asked the Cat, relieved.

"I honestly wouldn't mind just sitting here," said Lister simply. "What time is it anyway?"

"One thirty. You lot really slept in today," said Rimmer. "Which reminds me, I have to get back to the Medical Lab to check on the skutters. They're learning how to cut and clamp the umbilical cords."

"And how's that going?" asked Lister, not sure if he truly wanted the answer.

"Quite well, I'd say," said Rimmer. "They're practicing on those thick sausages."

"Great," said Lister gravely, as Holly came up on the screen.

"There's been a little accident down in the Medical Unit," said Holly. "Somehow the skutters managed to blow chunks of German sausage all over the place. I'm not sure how they did it with just a pair of scissors. Oh, and I'm receiving some sort distress call on my satellite. It's coming up on our radar scan at a rapid rate. It can't be more than half an hour from us."

"Aliens!" shouted Rimmer excitedly. "It's aliens! I know it is!"

"Rimmer, there's no such things as aliens," said Lister edgily. "Mankind proved that humans are alone in the universe thousands of years ago. Everything is of human origin."

"I think the existence of aliens is still highly probable," Rimmer reasoned. "How could anyone have possibly checked for life in every nook and cranny? The universe is huge and constantly expanding! There's something the two of you have in common, Lister."

"I'm going to try to communicate with whatever it is," said Holly. She disappeared from the screen.

"Just watch it be some sort of blood thirsty simulant," Lister said. "That's just what we need."

"Oh, I hope it's a woman," said the Cat, straightening out his immaculate collar.

"Why would anyone want to be with someone who evolved from the common house cat?" asked Rimmer. "I would think that hacking up hairballs and licking themselves clean just might be a bit of a turnoff to some people."

"Because," said the Cat. "I happen to be the finest guy on this ship. If I entered a beauty contest, all of those little supermodels would throw in their tiaras and sashes and head straight for the buffet table."

"What if it is a woman?" asked Lister apprehensively. "How would I explain _this?"_

"Well, buddy, look on the bright side! You know what they say, chicks dig guys with kids!" said the Cat pleasantly.

"I don't think this is what most of them had in mind," said Lister, gesturing to his corpulent frame.

"Oh, she'd probably be glad for the companionship," said Rimmer. "Someone to complain with about how insensitive men are and how hard it is to find a decent bra nowadays."

"Smeg off, Rimmer," Lister grumpily retorted.

"Well, it's definitely not human," said Holly, as she returned to the screen. "I couldn't understand it's binary message. It sounded like something along the lines of 'I am in portal meril, hlease melp he.'"

"Oh, and that's hard to translate," said Lister derisively.

"Aliens!" said Rimmer again. "It's the Quagaars! And they are in mortal peril and are in desperate need our help! Holly, how long have we got?"

"Approximately fifteen minutes. I've set out Scouter to have a look around."

"Are we going to try and rescue it?" asked the Cat. "Because I would really like to take another shower just in case it is a woman."

"It's not human, Cat," said Lister. "But maybe it has some medical knowledge. Maybe it can help with the operation,"

"Maybe they can restore my body!" said Rimmer hopefully.

"Maybe they have some more waxing paper!" said Cat eagerly.

They discussed the endless possibilities, each one more outrageous than the last. Rimmer was just theorizing the possibility of it being Monica Lewinsky when Holly interrupted him with another report.

"Well, you lot had better start getting ready to go out and get whatever it is," said Holly. "We now have eight minutes thirty-two seconds until we make contact. The Scouter's provided me with visual but it's impossible to tell what it is."

The Cat and Rimmer turned to head out of the drive room. Lister got heavily up out of his chair and followed them.

Halfway down the corridor Rimmer turned to look back at Lister. "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," said Lister, taken aback.

"No you're not, not in your condition," said Rimmer. "Just relax, that's never been hard for you before."

"But I want to come," said Lister indignantly, placing his hands on his hips. "I want to help. I'm with child, but there's still things I can do. I want to be useful."

"Since when have you wanted to be useful? You've never been useful. Remember that time when the stereo overheated and my record caught fire? You were just laying in your bunk reading one of your comics, and I was shouting and pleading with you to do something to put out the flames, but you wouldn't even lift a finger to save it. That record was irreplaceable. I would hardly call that useful, Lister."

"But that was different," said Lister. "It's not like it was important. It was only James Last's Happy Hammond album. I did us all a favor."

"Look, we don't know what's out there," said Rimmer sternly. "And frankly, it could be anything. That is why I am letting the Cat go on ahead first."

"Of course," Lister muttered. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"And you couldn't come anyway. Look at yourself. You're huge! I'll bet you couldn't even keep up with one of Richard Simmons's tapes. The space suit simply wouldn't fit you."

Lister glanced down at his enlarged stomach. "I guess you're right," he said grudgingly. "But still, _please—_you can't leave me here alone!"

"You're not alone," said Rimmer. "You've got Holly, remember?"

"Yeah, that's real comforting," said Lister sarcastically as he turned and slouched off down the corridor in defeat. "I'll be in the company of a senile transvestite computer. Great."

"Just take it easy, Listy!" Rimmer called to his bunkmate's retreating back.

Cat put on his specially tailored gold space suit and helmet, pausing to grin at his reflection in a small hand mirror. "Are you ready, Grand Canyon nostrils?"

The Cat and Rimmer left the ship to retrieve whatever poor soul was marooned on what Holly now informed him was definitely an asteroid, with some sort of unidentifiable debris from a wreckage everywhere. They took a team of skutters along with them. Scouter couldn't determine who the victim was from the remains of the crash. Rimmer and the Cat took the Blue Midget out to explore the asteroid and rescue the crash survivor, whoever it was, and the skutters had taken a break from their training to help the Cat retrieve the survivor.

Lister sat in the drive room with Holly, bored out of his mind, staring blankly at one of the dull military gray walls. Lister jumped when he felt a twitching, rhythmic tickling in his stomach.

"Aaah!" he cried. "What the smeg is that?"

"What did it feel like?" said Holly.

"Like a popcorn machine going off inside me," said Lister, unnerved. "It felt really funny!"

"It can't possibly be as funny as that walk you've developed," said Holly.

"No, I'm serious," said Lister. "They're jumping around in there or something!"

"It could be scrundungal," said Holly thoughtfully.

"Scrundungal?" Lister repeated skeptically. "What's that then, Hol?"

"Prenatal anti-war demonstrations," said Holly. "You know, like Berkeley in the sixties. Personally, I think they'd have better luck in San Francisco."

"Get outta town!" Lister exclaimed. "You're pulling my leg, right? What is it really, Holly?"

"It's nothing," Holly admitted. "I just made it up to look smart. I thought you might even fall for it."

"Nice one, Hol," said Lister, unimpressed. "But really, what d'you think it is?"

"The babies probably just have the hiccups from that Cola you had with breakfast," Holly reasoned. "It should pass anywhere from five to ten minutes. It's actually a very good sign. It means that their lungs and diaphragms are developing well."

"Cheers, Hol," said Lister, looking at his belly in wonder.

One hour passed. Two hours. Two and a half. Lister reclined in the drive room chair, his feet up on the console. He grew bored, rolled up his t-shirt and absentmindedly ran his index finger up the middle of his round belly. It was day seven. If Holly was correct, he would be giving birth in just two days, with the help of two skutters who's only experience with a caesarean was practicing on a dead pig's carcass and German sausages which were most likely made from said pig.

Lister prayed to the God that he had never believed in before that Rimmer and Cat would fine someone who could help him with the delivery of his twin sons, to ensure that the surgery was a success, and that he wouldn't die after the operation from severe internal hemorrhaging. Not even one week ago he had considered himself an atheist or indifferent at best—now he was a full blown pantheist.

He hoped that he would be a good parent; he would definitely try to do the best he could. He knew nothing about children. He hardly remembered being a child himself.

All he knew was that he had been abandoned by his parents, starting off at a disadvantage. He had spent time in an orphanage. All of his adopted family and guardians had died or just walked out on him. He had grown up somewhat self-reliantly ever since the death of his adoptive father when he was six, his adopted mother having left not long afterwards, and his grandmother dying when he was thirteen. He didn't want his kids to have a childhood like he did. He was going to teach them everything he knew and hopefully learn some valuable lessons from them, and always be there for them, give them the support he'd never had when he was a child.

He'd be there for them. He just didn't want them to have to go through what he did. Who knows what his life would have been like if he had someone who had stuck by him through thick and thin, who had never given up on him like his foster mum or died on him like his foster dad and grandmother.

Lister felt that he would have been a different person if he had someone he could have looked up to as a role model, he may even have completed more than ninety-seven minutes of art college. But if anyone of that had happened, he surely wouldn't be in this fix now—the last human alive, about to give birth to twins, three million years into deep space with a senile computer, a hologram of his dead bunk mate and a creature evolved from cats.

"They're coming back," said Holly suddenly, making Lister jump out of his reverie. "They're just leaving the airlocks on their way here."

"Can you tell what they've found, Hol?"

"No," said Holly squinting. "Afraid I can't see that far, it's an awful long way from here to the airlocks."

Lister rolled his eyes and waited for Rimmer and Cat to come to him to see what they had recovered. Several moments later the Cat and Rimmer entered the drive room, and then the skutters wheeled in a trolley, which was littered with mechanical debris in a somewhat familiar shape…

"Kryten?" said Lister, shocked. "Is that you?"

"It's him, all right," said Rimmer. "But we can hardly understand anything he's saying. His voice box has been severely damaged."

"They only thing we got out of him was something about crashing a bike into an asteroid," said the Cat.

"What?" said Lister quickly. "A bike? My space bike?"

"Yes," said Rimmer.

The Cat held up a handlebar, a horn, and the remains of two mini tattered British and American flags.

"That's all we found of the bike," Rimmer said, as the Cat gave the horn a toot.

"At least this still works!" said the Cat brightly.

"Smeg," said Lister, shaking his head. "Didn't he read the warning labels? 'Mechanoids and the elderly should never attempt to fly this bike through an asteroid belt?' Well, I guess his garden never worked out. I wonder how long he's been stranded there?"

"I don't know," said Rimmer. "But he took a hard hit. Look at all those pieces and damaged circuitry—not even Steve Smith could fix that up with duct tape."

"Well I'm going to have to try," said Lister. "I've only got a day and a half to fix him up at the most."

"_You're_ going to try and fix him up?" said Rimmer, aghast. "In your condition?"

"I don't have much of a choice," said Lister. "Unless I want my innards mangled by three clawed mechanical disasters on wheels."

"How can you be sure freak face can help?" asked Cat. "Right now he looks like he knows less than me, and that's saying something!"

"He's my only hope," said Lister. He turned to go.

"Where are you going?" asked Rimmer.

"Down to the cargo deck. I think I saw a spare mechanoid head down there when me and Cat were there. I'm going to need to get some tools, too."

**AN: So now Kryten has returned! (albeit as a heap of scrap metal.) I know that the scrolling in the start of Season III says that the crew discovered Kryten after the twins were returned to their universe. But I've read in several articles on the official Red Dwarf website that Kryten was discovered on asteroid **_**before **_**the birth, and that Lister was 'heavily pregnant' while repairing the droid. I especially liked writing this section, so please review to tell me what you think!**


	12. I Can Fix That

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is not mine.

**Day 7, Part 2**

Kryten's original head was damaged beyond repair. Lister returned about an hour later with one of the four spare Diva Droid International Series 4000 mechanoid heads that he had found in a box by supreme luck, along with an engineering toolbox. Rimmer involuntarily let out a girlish scream when he saw Lister come out of the lifts with a severed mechanoid head tucked underneath his arm.

With the skutter's help Lister got the remains of Kryten's body hauled up onto a table so Lister could work on repairing him. He first examined the mechanoid's remains, from his head that was smashed beyond recognition to his circuits that needed re-wiring. Usually Lister would have found this daunting task impossible in the amount of time he had, but under these very rare, life-threatening circumstances, he was able to pull himself together enough to put the mechanoid, who was his only chance, together. Lucky for him, he'd always had a bit of a knack for electrical engineering.

Lister shifted his weight onto his other side and wiped his sweaty face on the hem of his shirt. He removed what was left of Kryten's head and unscrewed the top. He detached the guilt chip and all of Kryten's memory and data files to transfer into the spare head. He had just finished installing the guilt chip when he got an idea.

"Holly?" Lister called.

"Yes, Dave?"

"Can you run his data files through your computer to see what kind of medical knowledge Kryten has?"

"Had is more like it," said Holly. "But sure, it's worth a look."

Lister entered Kryten's data disks into Holly's drive. "Scanning Diva Droid International Series 4000 Kryten 2X4B 523P data discs cross-referencing for keywords: pregnancy, birth, caesarean section," said Holly.

Holly checked through all of Kryten's files. "Good news, Dave. He does have a basic medical knowledge from his factory settings and training. I can't read his specific files at the moment, but you can ask him once he's up and running. It's highly probable that he will know something about performing a caesarean section. If we're lucky the file won't be corrupted at all and everything will go smoothly. But that's only if you get him repaired in time."

Lister breathed a sigh of relief. There was a chance that Kryten would be able to perform a caesarean. He and the twins were saved. With this comforting thought in mind, Lister went back to work, whistling cheerfully, in a race against time to complete the mechanoid. He only prayed that the data file was not corrupted.

Lister needed to bend over to pick up a tool on the floor in front of him. Lister tried to space his legs apart enough to accommodate the bulk of his stomach to no avail. He could hardly move less lean over. His fingers stretched helplessly toward the screwdriver not even two feet below him.

"I don't know how women stand this," said Lister, straightening up as he gave up his struggled attempts to reach the desired tool. "Hand me that screwdriver will you, Bob?"

**Day 7, Part 3**

Lister worked on Kryten all through that day and well into the night, only stopping for lunch and dinner and his frequent bathroom trips. He was making progress on the Droid, and was optimistic that he would be done in time. He was very exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his ankles were even more sore from being on his feet all day repairing Kryten.

Lister was now lying on his back on a wheeled coaster, working on the wiring underneath Kryten like you would on a car. Rimmer, quite rightly, had told Lister that this was not a good idea because there was a good chance that Lister wouldn't be able to get up again. Rimmer was at least appreciative that he knew Lister would provide him with a good laugh when he tried.

It was well past midnight, and it was only when Rimmer caught Lister subconsciously trying to use his spanner as a pillow that he suggested it might be time for Lister to turn in for the night.

"I can't," mumbled Lister, who was half asleep. "I have to get him done in time…"

"But it's driving me batty! Must you do it here?" Rimmer surveyed the array of android organs spread higgledy-piggledy all over the sleeping quarters. "What's this on my pillow? It's his eyes!"

"I'm just trying to fix him," said Lister, holding Kryten's nose in one hand and poking a pipe cleaner soaked in white spirit up his nostril with the other.

"Why do you have to keep his bits all over my bunk?" complained Rimmer.

"So I know where they are," Lister replied simply.

"Yes, well, I'm sorry, but I refuse to have somebody else's eyes on my pillow," said Rimmer obstinately.

"Look—my goal is to have him finished in time."

"Yeah, right," said Rimmer doubtfully. "Look at this mess! There is no way you'll be finished in time. What's this in my coffee mug? It's his big toe!" said Rimmer in disgust.

"Rimmer, will you just smeg off and leave me to it?" said Lister with some difficulty, as he was holding at least ten screws between his lips as he felt around once again for his screwdriver.

"I don't know why you're even bothering," said Rimmer. "He's obviously a hopeless case. I actually like him much better this way. And you can never do anything right anyways, Lister. Why should this be any different for you? You're just the kind of person who's destined for failure."

"I hate you, Rimmer," said Lister, gritting his teeth with the effort of twisting a stubborn bolt into place on Kryten's neck. "I really hate you…"

"What do you want to repair him for, anyway? He's just a mechanoid. A mechanoid that's gone completely stark raving mad."

"I need to find out if he can help me," said Lister, speaking with the ends of several colorful wires in his mouth. "And.. I dunno… I feel sorry for him."

"Sorry for him? He's a machine. It's like feeling sorry for a tractor."

"It's not," Lister protested. "He's got a personality."

"Yes, a personality that should be severely sedated, bound in a metal straightjacket and locked in a rubber room with a stick between his teeth," Rimmer retorted.

"I can fix that," said Lister.

"You think it's just like repairing your bike, don't you? Spot of grease, clean all the bits, re-bore his carburetor, and bang! He's good as new."

"Same principle."

"He's got a defect in his artificial intelligence. You'd need a degree in Advanced Mental Engineering from Caltech to set him in rights," said Rimmer.

Lister prodded one of Kryten's circuit boards with a soldering iron. "Or have the pressure of finishing a job before you're maimed for life by clumsy three clawed, hapless travesties of machinery."

"You've been twiddling with that same circuit for two hours now. You're making no progress. You might as well go to bed and start again tomorrow. You'll probably work better after a good night's sleep."

"I guess you're right," said Lister in defeat, as he realized that the red and yellow wires he had been fiddling with did look all too familiar.

He pushed himself out from under the droid propped up between two tables and got awkwardly to his feet. He surveyed his work. Kryten definitely didn't look like he did before, but it was certainly an improvement from the heap of scrap metal he had started with. His body was starting to resemble some kind of a shape again. Tomorrow he would work on the Droid's memory and personality circuits.

"Smeg," Lister muttered, as his pants caught on the corner of the table and ripped along the hem.

Lister retired to the Officer's Quarters and crawled into his bunk. He stole Rimmer's pillow so he could be more comfortable in his sleep, leaving Rimmer's head hovering several inches above the bunk. He was so exhausted that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Kryten's incomplete remains remained lifeless and limp over the two tables. And time ticked on.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

25 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on. I just don't understand how my pillow keeps disappearing every night and ends up with Lister. I suspect aliens. Lister has been concerned today because he says that the babies weren't moving as much as they usually do. I told him to stop worrying and that the reason that he doesn't feel as much movement is because they're running out of space to move around in. Plus he insists on repairing that disrespectful mechanoid so that the useless pile of scrap metal can assist the skutters in the delivery of his twins. Personally, I don't think he can ever finish in time. I guess we'll just have to see what happens. Whatever solution we try to come up with, there isn't a whole lot of time. The main advantage that I can see from all of this is that Lister is no longer able to trim his toenails using his teeth. Tape off.

**AN: There you are—a short update to conclude Day 7. Ideas/excerpts for the scenes with Lister repairing Kryten are influenced by scenes from _Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers, _my personal favorite book of the series.**


	13. Welcome Back, Kryten

**Day 8, Part 1**

Lister woke earlier the next day than he usually would have. But he was on a mission, and he decided that it wouldn't kill him to get up before noon for just one day. Besides, who knew what his schedule would be like once the babies came?

Lister ate his breakfast as fast as humanly possible the next day—scrambled eggs covered in ketchup and salad dressing and a stack of honey and onion sandwiches. He almost immediately regretted eating so fast because he got some serious heartburn. He then returned to working on the android. He knew that he didn't have much time, he could sense it and feel it as well. His stomach had grown to an astonishingly great size and he didn't think it was possible for it to get any larger. His abdomen also felt more solid to the touch and painfully tight. Lister also noticed that his stomach didn't look as high up as it did before. No, he knew he didn't have much time. He picked up a pair of wire clippers and got to work.

While Lister worked on repairing Kryten, Rimmer and Holly continued instructing the skutters on what to do incase Kryten couldn't be repaired in time. Rimmer and Holly didn't want to admit it to Lister, but there was as much chance of the skutters perfecting the operation as there was for the Cat to suddenly decide to burn all of his suits and adopt Lister's wardrobe.

The Cat had made himself scarce, roaming the cargo decks and trying to stay out of everybody's way. He didn't want to help Lister repair Freak Face or be pressured by Rimmer to help with the operation. No, he was much more content playing with his collection of shiny things and making things his. In the afternoon he got hungry and decided to go get some lunch—Chicken Marengo, one of his favorite foods beside fish.

Lister slaved over the inner workings of the mechanoid's head, testing his voice circuits, which resembled nothing more than the prototype mechanical computer voice.

"Quark dingbat fizzigog Netherlands," said Kryten's disembodied head. "Smirk Window-Kleen double-helix badger pedestrian walrus."

There was a _fzzzt _sound of a circuit shorting, and his eyes blinked closed. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from his open skull.

Lister cursed. He peeked into Kryten's mechanoid brain, tutted, and fished out a half-eaten cheese sandwich with chili dressing from yesterday. He prodded around with the soldering iron, absently biting into the stale day-old sandwich.

The Cat walked in with his lunch on a tray and sat down at the table where Lister was working. The Cat swept all of all Lister's tools and bits of computer chips and wires unceremoniously onto the floor to make room for his lunch.

"If you try and take this food, you're in serious personal danger," said the Cat.

"I'm not going to try and take it," said Lister, taking another bite of his sandwich and hot-fusing two circuits together with his other hand. "I've got me own food."

"Just don't even think about it," said the Cat, as though he hadn't heard Lister. "I know you are. You're thinking how much fun it would be to try and take my food. But I advise you, buddy, that is not a smart move."

"You're so unwilling to share," said Lister. He held out his sandwich. "I share. See? You want a bite?"

The Cat's nose wrinkled in distaste. "You know what? I've lost my appetite just about now. Here, have it. I don't want it anymore, I want something else."

The Cat left, and Lister picked up his abandoned lunch tray in victory. "Brutal."

**Day 8, Part 2**

At eleven o'clock that night, Lister burst excitedly the Medical Lab where Rimmer, Holly, and Cat were having a game of charades. Rimmer was unsuccessfully trying to silently do an impression of Karl Marx.

"I think I've done it," gasped Lister, clutching breathlessly at his chest. "He looks great. I'm just about to switch him on. Come see."

Rimmer and Cat looked surprised, but got up and followed Lister nonetheless. Holly flipped off the screen in the Medical Bay and reappeared in the Drive Room along with the rest of them a few seconds later.

Kryten was laying on the table top that Lister had set up for repairs. His body was now more angular and square looking than his original frame, but he seemed to be entirely intact, and the others were surprised at Lister's success in repairing the droid. The new Kryten's face had more of an edgy look and was tinted pink peach color. He looked to be in working order, and now was the time to see if his programming had been rescued.

"Ready?" asked Lister excitedly.

"Yes," said Rimmer, Cat, and Holly together.

"Here it goes," said Lister proudly, as he powered up the android.

Kryten's circuits sparked into life. There was blackness, nothingness, and then a sound.

"Jjjjdt!" The mechanoid's brain tried to comprehend the sounds entering his language processing unit. He heard the sound again. "Jjjjdt!" What did that sound mean? The sound again… but this time it was different. He remembered hearing it before. It was a language. But he'd forgotten what it meant.

"Kryjjjtdn."

A name. A name he should have known.

"Kryjjtdn."

His name.

"Kryten? Kryten?"

There was a flash of green light. Then black lines drew themselves across his field of vision. Then the lines melted away, and he was looking at a message:

"Mechanoid Visual System, Version IX.05. Copyright Infomax Data Corporation 2296."

And then he got his sight back. He saw floods of brilliant colors: blues, reds, yellows, dancing nonsensically before him.

His eyes focused. There was a man's face grinning at him. The man looked very familiar…

"Ye-es!" said the man. "Bru-taaaaal!"

"Hove Mumber Daffd," Kryten babbled in greeting.

Lister twiddled around inside the mechanoid's head with a sonic screwdriver.

"Hello, Mr. David," said Kryten, in a distinct Canadian accent.

Lister and the others were taken aback at Kryten's new voice and looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Don't look at me," said Lister quickly.

"He crashes into an asteroid," said Rimmer slowly. "Lister repairs him. Leave it to Listy to do a repair job and suddenly he's developed a Canadian accent. Just typical."

Lister chuckled, finding Kryten's new accent to be quite amusing. "Well, I like it better than the old English butler accent, that's nothing. How do you feel, Krytes?"

"Well, I feel quite good, actually, Mr. Lister," said Kryten genially. "And I thank you for your concern in my well being."

"Yes!" said Lister triumphantly. "I've done it! You're back in action!"

He put Kryten's skull-piece back into place, fastened the latches and replaced his ear. "How d'you feel?"

"Everything seems to be functioning," said Kryten flatly, as he wriggled his digits on one hand to prove to himself that they were in working order.

"Welcome back to the Red Dwarf, Kryten," said Lister genially. "Do you remember us?"

"How could he forget?" said Cat. "With a face like mine—I'm unforgettable!"

"But of course I remember," said Kryten slowly, getting precariously to his feet, and Lister reached out to steady him. "You're Mr. David Lister, sir. And that creature over there is Mr. Cat. And the hologram in the corner is called Mr. Arnold Rimmer."

"Good job, Listy," said Rimmer, genuinely impressed. "For once you actually did something right."

"No," said Lister, shaking his head vigorously. "It's not right."

"What d'you mean?" asked the Cat.

"This is what I mean," said Lister, pointing at Rimmer. "Kryten, remind me who that is again?"

"Why, that is Mr. Rimmer, sir." Said Kryten automatically.

"You see?" said Lister. "Don't you remember, Kryte? He's not Mr. Rimmer, or Sir. You can call him Rimmer, or smeghead, or arse hole, but never Mister or sir. Don't you remember?"

"I don't understand," said Kryten. "The concept of which you speak simply goes beyond my programming, Mr. Lister, sir. I am programmed to address any human with these formalities, simply because they outrank me."

"No, this one doesn't," said Lister, jerking his thumb behind him at Rimmer. "He ranked lower than the service droids."

"So did you," Rimmer muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"That's not the point right now," said Lister. "His personality chip has been set back to its factory settings. All of the work I did corrupting his files has been undone. I hope none of his other files were corrupted."

"You mean I can order him around again? Without any back talk?" said Rimmer cheerfully. "Excellent, I can already think of several chores—"

"Oh no you don't," said Lister sternly. "Kryten, tell us what happened with the crash."

"Well, sir, I was looking for a planet with an S3 atmosphere to begin my own garden. Suddenly I was blind sighted by an asteroid heading straight for me. Actually there were several of them. I think I may have been riding through an asteroid belt. Anyways, I crashed into one of them and have been issuing distress calls for four months. I am quite fortunate that you found me, sirs."

"Actually," said Lister. "I think we're more fortunate that we found you."

"Whatever do you mean, sir?" asked Kryten.

Lister placed both his hands on his bulging stomach, which looked fit to burst. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, sir."

"You don't notice anything even slightly odd?" said Lister in disbelief. "I look like a contestant in one of those apple pie eating contests."

"I wasn't going to say anything, sir. My guilt chip told me that it would be rude and distasteful to inquire about your unusual physical appearance, Mr. David. I didn't dare ask. I thought it looked you had put on rather a lot of weight, but I would never say so unless asked for my honest opinion. I assumed that you had some benign tumor or parasitic growth."

"Isn't it the same thing?" asked the Cat, grinning and nudging Lister.

Lister opened his mouth the speak, when Rimmer begged, "Oh please, let me tell him?"

Lister shrugged. "Sure, Rimmer."

"I'll tell you what's going on," said Rimmer gleefully. "He's pregnant."

"He's pregnant?" repeated Kryten. "But, I don't understand. That simply is not physically possible in a human male. My data files tell me that it is only the females who can become pregnant in your species."

"Well, Lister's a very rare, freak exception," said Rimmer. "Plus he hardly qualifies as a human himself."

"Not only that," said the Cat gleefully. "It's double trouble. Twins."

"But how did this happen?" asked Kryten, looking beyond confused. "There are no human females on this ship…"

"Holly invented a thing called the Holly Hop Drive that was supposed to get us back to earth, but instead led us to a female orientated parallel universe—" said Rimmer, but he was cut off by Lister.

"If you're going to tell him the story at least let me do it," said Lister. "So we met the female versions of ourselves. Holly fell in love with Hilly and decided to have a head sex change operation to look just like her. He's totally mad. Rimmer's opposite, Arlene, tried to pick him up—"

"Leave that out," Rimmer ordered.

"But it was hilarious!" said the Cat. "The real tragedy was that I was looking so fine and then it turns out my opposite is a Dog!"

"That was probably for the best," said Rimmer pensively.

"Anyways," said Lister. "We went to the disco and I had a few drinks with my female opposite, Deb. We were totally out of our skulls. I even tried to juggle the goldfish blindfolded. I ended up sleeping with her."

"And it was a parallel universe…" said Kryten slowly. "So the male of the species in that dimension gets pregnant? What a curious concept. I have only ever heard of that condition in seahorses. So that is what happened to you, Mr. David?"

"Yeah," said Lister in a low voice. "They're due any time now."

"Well, congratulations, sir!" said Kryten enthusiastically. "You must be thrilled. I personally cannot wait for that extra bit of laundry! All those cute little suits and onesies that I'll get to iron—my pleasure unit is fit to burst with the anticipation of it all!"

Lister smiled wryly, and locked eyes with Kryten. "On the topic, there's something really important I need to ask you-- do you know how to perform a caesarean section?"

"You'd trust a deranged droid with a Canadian accent over one of those ugly beaked things?" said the Cat in astonishment.

Kryten scanned his memory disc. "Yes—that does ring a bell. I do have basic medical training. Now, is that the removing of offspring through an incision in the abdominal wall, or the removal of that useless organ on the right side of the body?"

"The first one," said Rimmer. "Although you can also do the second while you're at it. Lister seems to have an endless stock of them. He really enjoys getting his appendix removed."

"Yeah," said Lister, grinning. "All the ice cream you can eat!"

"Isn't that for a tonsillectomy?" said Rimmer.

"Oh, yeah, you're right," said Lister. "But still, getting your appendix removed is almost as much fun. So Kryte, will you be up to doing it, then? Most likely tomorrow?"

"Why I would be delighted, sir." Said Kryten. "I might have to touch up on the procedure from one of the surgical instruction manuals in the Medical Unit."

"Brutal," said Lister, relieved that one of his many concerns had been put to rest.

"We should all get to bed, then," said Kryten. "It is getting quite late, and we have a big day tomorrow. Or at least you do, Mr. Lister, sir."

"How _will _I know when it's time?" asked Lister.

"Oh, trust me," said Rimmer, smiling widely, his nostrils flaring. "You'll know."


	14. Labor

**Day 8, Part 3**

Lister went to the Officer's Quarters, but didn't fall asleep right away. He instead got out a needle and thread. He pulled off his maternity slacks. Lister sat up on his bunk in his boxers and began saddle-stitching the hem of the slacks that he had torn earlier, whilst eating a large bowl of mango custard.

Lister tried to concentrate on the stitching he was doing. He had to hold his hands out a good foot from his body to even accomplish the task. Sitting there in complete silence, he realized he realized how labored and constricted his breathing had become. He seemed to be constantly out of breath. Even walking across the room took considerable effort, and left him as winded as if he had just run a mile. Several times when he pushed the needle up through the linen his thumb got in the way and received a painful prick. After one particularly painful jab, the needle actually drew blood and Lister cursed, sucking on the tip of his thumb.

Lister jumped when Kryten entered the room silently and spoke. "Mr. Lister, sir, may I have your permission to power down for the night if all of my duties are complete?"

"You what?" said Lister, breathing quickly, clutching his chest. "Kryten, you don't need to ask my permission to power down at night. If you need to recharge, just do it."

"But sir, it's in my programming. My duties on the ship that you want me to complete always come before recharging—before my own needs."

"Kryten, you power down whenever you want, and that's an order," said Lister sternly.

"But I see a task I can assist you in right now," said Kryten. "You don't have to saddle-stitch those trousers by hand. I would happily do it for you."

"No thanks, Kryten, man. I actually like stitching these up. I've even been known to knit in my spare time. Just go power down, you have my permission and I order you never to ask me again."

"Thank you, sir," said Kryten, turning to go. "Oh—I almost forgot! I made something for you today that I think you'll find quite useful."

"Really?" said Lister eagerly. "What is it?"

Kryten held up a sling that he had draped over his arm that Lister had dismissed as nothing more than some laundry. Kryten handed the sling to Lister, who held it hang limply in the air as he examined it. A look of confusion fixed itself on Lister's face.

"That's really nice of you, Kryte," said Lister. "But would you mind if I ask what it is?"

"Why, it is an over-the-shoulders carrier," Kryten explained.

"Over the shoulders?" repeated Lister, as he arranged the sling around his neck. "Not to put you off or anything, Kryten, but I think you may have made a mistake when you sewed this. It doesn't look right to me,"

"That is because you have it on inside out and backwards, sir," said Kryten, straightening out the carrier so that it was facing the appropriate way. "This is how it's supposed to be."

"Oh, I see," said Lister slowly. "So, what's it for?"

"It has two sides, you see. I thought it might come in handy so that you can carry the twins around in the carriers and have free use of your hands."

"It's for Jim and Bexley?" said Lister, looking at the sling with a new appreciation. "Wow, that's a great idea, Krytes! Thanks a lot, I could really use this! This is really nice of you!"

"Oh, it was nothing," said Kryten bashfully, pleased at Lister's approval.

"No, it's not nothing," said Lister, his voice trembling. "This is just the nicest thing that anyone's done for me in a long time—around three million years, to be precise."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true, sir," said Kryten humbly. "Surely at least Mr. Rimmer has been helpful to you during this difficult and vulnerable time in your life."

"No he hasn't," Lister sniffed. "He's been really horrible to me. I know he's trying to help me out in his own weird way, but he just makes me feel worse. The other day he told me, 'No offense, Listy, but I don't think the kids weigh forty pounds!' So insensitive…"

"There, there, sir," said Kryten, patting Lister consolingly on the back. "What a tactless thing for Mr. Rimmer to say! Doesn't he know that kind of comment to someone who is pregnant can result in an imminent second death?"

"What really bothers me," said Lister, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Is that I'm letting him get to me. I never used to let him get to me before…"

"Oh, it's not your fault, sir," said Kryten in his most comforting voice. "I would imagine that you can only understand what you're going through if you've been there yourself."

"Finally, somebody understands…" Lister mumbled. "Listen, Kryten—thanks again. It was really, really nice of you to make me this carrier and cheer me up a bit."

"It was my pleasure, sir," said Kryten happily. "Good night, Mr. Lister." He bowed himself out of the room.

"Wait," said Lister, and Kryten turned back.

"How may I help you, sir?" said Kryten formally.

"Welcome back, Kryten," said Lister, smiling warmly. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Oh, thank you, sir," said Kryten, his circuits heating up to the point where he wondered if he could possibly blush. "It's good to be back."

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

26 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on. Lister surprised us all today when he actually finished repairing that useless heap of scrap metal. Lister didn't finish the job until late this evening. It was understandably a difficult job for him with that incredible girth of his always getting in the way. It took him a full twenty minutes to force his shoes on this morning. Today I made the rather witty observation that the only thing to compare his size with is the Soviet Union. I don't think Lister took it very well—he threw a crowbar at me (it didn't do me any harm, but I still ducked,) and he spent most of the day not speaking to me. He's so oversensitive. But it'll all be over soon—the operation is supposed to be performed tomorrow, and then we'll have two whole new problems on our hands. Lister's chance of survival has risen slightly raised now that we have Kryten to aid in the caesarean section. To prepare for the arrival of the babies, I had Kryten do a full cleaning of our part of the ship from top to bottom. It's quite lovely to have a servant, especially since he has now lost his rebellious attitude towards his superiors. Tape off.

**Day 9, Part 1**

Lister went to bed shortly after his conversation with Kryten. He first surveyed himself critically in the mirror. Sure, he had put on weight. But he was also carrying two babies inside him who were nearly at full term, so he had all the right to put on a few extra pounds. But still, Rimmer's hurtful remark about his weight had touched a nerve that he didn't know he had. He weighed himself before bed. He had gained three stone. Forty-two pounds. In nine days. This put Lister into a pit of depression. So far the Cat was winning the bet. Lister hoped they had forgot that they had ever made a deal.

Lister was in bed by one o'clock. Even this new bunk, which was nearly twice as large as the bunk he used to have, felt very cramped. He felt his familiar feeling of claustrophobia as he imagined the walls of his bunk closing in on him, and he was equally apprehensive about going under the knife at any time.

Lister finally managed to drift off to sleep as he sucked on his thumb. His dream was relatively pleasant—he suddenly had all of his favorite things back. In his dream he was sitting around in his red London Jets t-shirt and khaki trousers eating a vindaloo, smoking a cigarette, and drinking a can of wicked strength lager, when suddenly he began to feel a dull pain.

Where was it coming from? The pain released, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then the pain returned again, this time stronger, and the pain was so intense that Lister was woken up to discover this excruciating sensation from his dream was real.

He gasped in painful surprise and squinted his eyes shut tight, his hands instinctively clasped his stomach, where he realized with horror was the source of the pain. No, this wasn't just the boys playing kicky bag with his bladder this time. All of his stomach muscles seemed to be tightening and loosening again.

He waited several agonizing moments for the pain to go away, he didn't want to wake the others if it was nothing. Rimmer had warned him about false contractions called Braxton Hicks. What he didn't understand was why he would be having any contractions anyways.

Lister curled up into a fetal position and checked his watch. It was three minutes past two o'clock in the morning. After about ten minutes of lying there in anguish he determined that the pain was genuine. His face was contorted from the pain like he had never felt before. Tears streamed down his face and he bit his lips to keep from screaming out in agony.

A mournful whimper of pain escaped his lips, and he knew this was for real. The time had come. "Rimmmmmmer….." he whined softly.

He heard Rimmer slowly stirring in the bunk above him. "Rimmer…" he whimpered again, softly.

"What is it, Lister?" asked Rimmer groggily. "Go back to sleep…"

"I can't," Lister gasped, unable to conceal the pain in his voice.

"Is everything okay?" said Rimmer, sounding slightly more alert.

"Noooo," Lister moaned. "It hurts…."

"Lights!" Rimmer squeaked, jumping down onto the floor and kneeling by Lister's bed. "Where does it hurt?"

Lister wordlessly showed Rimmer, running his clamped hands in a circular motion down his stomach.

"What does it feel like?" asked Rimmer, his voice higher than a chipmunk on helium.

"All tight, then loose, then tight," Lister gasped, his face screwed up in pain. "It hurts like smeg."

"It could just be Braxton Hicks contractions, remember? I told you those might happen," Rimmer said in a panicked voice.

"No," Lister insisted. "I know it's for real. It's been going on for a long time now…I can't…I can't do this…it hurts…I think they're coming…"

"They're real muscle contractions," said Rimmer, turning almost as pale as Lister was. "Or something like that! Smeg—it is time! That's how we know. We need help. Cat—Kryten—the skutters… I'll go round them up. D'you think you can walk to the Medical Bay?"

Lister clenched his teeth and shot Rimmer a death glare through eyes narrowed with pain.

"No, I didn't think so," said Rimmer. "Just wait here, I'll go get help!"

Lister rolled over onto his side. Why was he having these? He was a guy. He wasn't sure how it was possible and he wasn't keen to ask. He knew that Rimmer would have the answer, along with the answers to many other questions that Lister had been fighting not to think about, and thought it best for his sanity if he didn't know.

The muscle contractions were becoming more and more frequent, drawn-out and painful. He couldn't hold it any longer. He let out a long, agonized scream. Lister usually didn't use any profanity apart from smeg. He saved all the other words for times when he really meant them, to give the words more power and meaning, like for when he was very upset or badly injured. Well, Lister thought now would be an excellent time to use these words to express the pain he was feeling. Maybe it would hurry the others along. Every second lasted an eternity. Lister now screamed every profanity ever invented by man as he waited for the others to show up.

"Quite creative, aren't we, Listy?" said Rimmer as he emerged with Kryten and Cat, who was in a satin night robe and was wearing a hairnet. "See? He's obviously gone into labor. We'd better get him to the Medical Unit."


	15. The Birth

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor

**Day 9, Part 2**

Lister finished his rant of cursing, breathing heavily and thrashing about in pain.

"I'll go prepare the medical unit with the skutters, Mr. Lister," said Kryten as he promptly turned to go. "Oh, this is all so exciting…."

"Cat, go get him that wheeled stretcher from the medical unit," instructed Rimmer, and for once, amazingly, the Cat didn't argue or come up with an excuse involving his grooming, but turned and followed Kryten.

Rimmer looked around helplessly as Lister writhed and moaned in his bunk. He tried to think of a way he could help Lister, without physically being able to actually do anything to help, as he was a hologram. He instead decided on giving Lister some verbal moral support.

"Come on, Listy! Bite the bullet, be tough! It can't be that bad. Deep breaths, now. Just try to picture a big, green open field with lots of trees and flowers, it's sunny and you're very calm and relaxed…. You're completely at peace with the world around you. Now, take a deep breath—in… out…. in…" he coached, trying to sound soothing rather than panicked.

Lister glared at Rimmer, and growled through clenched teeth, "You can help me by shutting up."

"Righto," said Rimmer, clapping his hands together. "Ah, Cat, there you are!"

The Cat raced into the room, pushing the stretcher he had retrieved from the medical unit. "Freak face says he's almost ready," said Cat. "But the ugly beaked thingies are still playing some cowboy game. How're you doing, buddy?"

Lister shook his head in reply, too pained to speak, as he attempted to sit up in bed.

"Don't worry," said the Cat animatedly. "It'll feel better when it stops hurting!"

"Oh, what a great help you are," said Rimmer sarcastically. "You're about as useful as Amelia's Earheart's compass."

"Hey, thanks!" said the Cat, grinning. "This had better be good. This whole thing is totally against Cat nature. Most of us are long gone before they have to be there for any births. You see, there's an old Cat saying—if you're around for the birth, you've hung around too long!"

"There's an old human saying, it's: Cat, stop yapping and help him up!" said Rimmer, who had noticed, unlike Cat, Lister's failing, frustrated attempts to climb from his bunk onto the stretcher.

"Oh, right, sorry, bud," said the Cat, as he reached out and helped pull Lister to his feet. As soon as Lister was standing he doubled over, his fingers spread out over his enormous stomach. He winced, biting his lip so hard that it started to bleed.

Cat gave Lister a leg up onto the stretcher, and slowly, with great difficulty, Lister laid down on the firm stretcher's mattress, clutching his stomach and whimpering.

"Ready, bud?" asked Cat, leaning over Lister's face from the back of the stretcher, smiling toothily. Rimmer was dancing about anxiously from foot to foot.

Lister nodded weakly. "Ready as I'll ever be. Let's go."

The Cat turned the stretcher around and wheeled it quickly in the direction of the medical unit, Rimmer following at his heels, looking flustered and excited.

In the middle of the hallway the Cat stopped at the food dispenser.

"Fish!"

"Not now, you stupid Cat!" cried Rimmer in horror.

"What, I'm hungry!" said Cat defensively. "A Cat needs to eat! Hey, buddy, do you want anything?"

"An epidural," came Lister's faint reply.

"Any _food?" _said Cat, leaning in close to Lister's face.

"Of course he doesn't want any food right now!" snapped Rimmer impatiently. "Go! Go!"

Cat took his tray from the machine and handed it roughly to Lister. "Hold this." Lister gripped the tray with fumbling fingers, scowling.

"Hey, machine, I also want a—"

"CAT!" Lister yelped.

"All right, all right…" muttered Cat, and he once again started pushing the stretcher in the direction of the medical unit.

"Hey, this is kind of fun!" laughed the Cat. "I wonder how fast this thing goes?"

"Not fast enough," said Lister feebly.

Kryten was fussing over a tray of tools next to the surgical bed. He was debating whether to use the steel or laser scalpel. He had laid out a small and medium sized vacuum, a pair of scissors, clamps, a variety of needles and IV's, alcohol cleansing wipes, anesthesia, a suturing kit, electric razor, silver thermal blankets, towels, and a box of cigars, which he had read were supposedly quite tasteful.

Kryten was also watching an instructional video on emergency caesarean sections from the medical unit's stores, a review as he busied himself with preparing for the surgery. The skutters were chasing each other around the room, each wielding a plastic gun, re-enacting one of their favorite scenes from their John Wayne movies.

"Holly?" Rimmer called. He waited a moment, and Holly didn't appear. "Holly? Oh, never mind…"

Kryten switched on the overhead light above the bed and switched on the medi scan. He then consulted a pocket medical manual, when Cat pushed Lister further into the room on the gurney. Rimmer followed closely behind.

"Oh, there you are, sir!" said Kryten. "I think we're ready."

"You don't need those birthing stirrups with a c-section," Rimmer pointed out when he noticed the look of alarm on Lister's face.

"Oh, yes, how foolish of me," said Kryten, putting the stirrups away.

Rimmer eyed all the tools laid out for the caesarian section operation and grinned. "Look at all those tools. You could have a house of torture with all of those. Are you sure you don't want natural childbirth, Listy?"

If looks could kill Rimmer would have died a second excruciatingly painful death on the spot with the look Lister shot him, as he cursed loudly in response.

"I guess that's a no, then," said Rimmer, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet..

"Sir—are you sure that you don't want to allow only myself and the skutters in the room for the birth?" asked Kryten. "It may be best for Mr. Rimmer and Mr. Cat to wait outside. It's not going to be pretty. In fact, it will be quite gruesome and graphic."

Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten looked to Lister for his answer.

"I don't care if they stay," Lister said. "So long as they keep their traps shut. Just get started…"

Lister caught side of the video playing on the monitor and turned deathly pale. He watched for several seconds, eyes wide, as he saw several doctors in hospital scrubs standing around a heavily pregnant woman, using a scalpel to slice away at the abdominal muscle wall.

"This isn't the first time you've actually reviewed a tape to see how it's done, is it? Is that really what they do?" asked Lister, panicked. "You're not a charlatan, are you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Lister," said Kryten. "I must admit that this instructional tape is the first time I have actually seen the operation performed. All of my other knowledge is based purely on theory."

"That's really reassuring," said the Cat sarcastically. "Just admit you don't know what you're doing."

"What exactly will you be doing?" asked Lister, who hadn't bothered to read up on the operation beforehand.

"Basically, we're going to make a horizontal incision just below the pubic bone. I will cut through the muscle walls and straight to the amniotic sacs. The babies, as you know, will be delivered through the incision, and then we will sew you back together afterwards."

"How safe is it?" Rimmer inquired.

"It is a major, sometimes life-threatening abdominal surgery when in the wrong hands," Kryten began. "However, the survival rate is very high with all of the medical advancements over the years. Today, a caesarean section is actually considered a generally safe procedure for childbirth."

"Did you hear that, buddy?" exclaimed the Cat brightly. "You'll be fine as long as you're not in the wrong hands!" he thought for a moment. "It's been nice knowing you!"

"Can't you do anything helpful to the situation?" said Rimmer. "Like stuffing a sock in your mouth?"

"Very well then, Mr. Lister sir," said Kryten, as he walked around the side of the bed to Lister's side. He took the Cat's tray from Lister and set it aside. Kryten grabbed Lister' wrist and found his pulse, and counted for a few seconds. "Hmm, one fifty two over ninety three. Rather high. Nothing to worry about, though, sir. Mr. Cat, would you please assist me in transferring Mr. Lister to the operating table?"

Cat pushed the stretcher so that it was parallel with the surgical table. Kryten walked around to Lister's side and grabbed his arms, supporting his head and upper back, and Cat grabbed a hold of his legs.

"On the count of three, sir," said Kryten. "One—two—three!" Kryten and the Cat heaved Lister up of the stretcher and carried him the foot over to the surgical bed, where they laid him down.

"Phew," said the Cat, wiping his face with an embroidered handkerchief. "There's my workout for the week."

"Here, Mr. Lister, sir, I'll help you put this on," said Kryten, retrieving a white surgical gown and carrying it over to the surgical table. Lister sat up slowly and lifted up his arms. He allowed Kryten to pull his t-shirt off, so that Lister was sitting up on the table, doubled over in pain wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. Kryten untied the back of the surgical gown and held it out so Lister could stick his arms through the holes, and then he did up each individual tie, starting at the neck and stopping halfway down.

Lister's face was screwed up in pain and he was breathing uneasily. His shoulders and back were trembling.

"Work faster, Kryten!" Rimmer ordered. "Can't you see he's in pain?"

"Yeah," said the Cat. "He looks worse than Phyllis Diller on one of her good days!"

"Well we can't wait too much longer to start the operation," said Rimmer. "Imagine how much stress the twins must be under. They're ready to blow, but with nowhere to go."

"Hey," said the Cat, giggling feebly. "That rhymes!"

"Would you like the epidural now, sir?" asked Kryten.

"Yessss," said Lister gratefully. "Oh, please..."

Kryten picked up a cleansing wipe and swabbed the center of Lister's lower back. "This first shot is just to numb the surface tissue before the real epidural," said Kryten. "You may feel an unpleasant pinch, I'm afraid, sir."

"Just do it," said Lister through clenched teeth, determinedly not looking at the needle in Kryten's hands, but rather towards his feet, which were barely visible beyond the bulk of his stomach. He started to panic at the thought of a needle penetrating his spine. "Somebody grab my hand!" he pleaded pathetically.

Rimmer and Kryten nodded at Cat, who gave a helpless, pathetic look before grudgingly walking over to Lister and holding out his perfectly manicured hand, which Lister seized, squeezing with brute strength.

"Hang in there, Listy," said Rimmer in his most comforting voice.

Kryten inserted the needle into Lister's lower spine and emptied its contents. Lister winced in pain. "Ow, ow, ow…" he whimpered raspily.

Rimmer and the Cat watched, suddenly feeling quite sick themselves, and the Cat choked on the bite of fish he had just put it his mouth.

The Cat's face also bore a pained expression and he hissed as Lister gripped his hand with bone-breaking force.

Kryten extracted the needle from Lister's spine. A red dot was left from the needle, oozing a small amount of blood, which Kryten wiped off with one of the many towels. "Now we'll wait a moment while that numbs the surface, sir."

Lister let go of the Cat's crippled hand. "Did you hear those cracks? My beautiful hand! Buddy, I think you broke every bone in it!"

"Thanks, Cat, sorry man," said Lister sheepishly, as the Cat waved his hand around, trying to restore the blood flow in his pulsing, knotted fingers. Rimmer was pacing quickly, a tense look on his face, his nostrils flared.

After a few moments, Kryten said, "Do you feel at all numb yet, sir?"

"Yeah, but not nearly enough," said Lister weakly.

"Well, I guarantee that you will feel no pain from the navel down in a minute, sir," said Kryten, as he prepared the epidural. "This is not for the squeamish, Mr. Rimmer, sir," Kryten warned, picking up the needle, which was attached to a long, thin tube running into the medicomp's IV's.

"Are you ready, sir?" asked Kryten. Lister made the mistake of looking at the needle Kryten was holding.

"I think so," he gulped, closing his eyes and biting his lip in anticipation. Rimmer and the Cat cringed. Lister waited.

"When are you going to do it?" asked Lister, cautiously opening one eye.

"It's already done, sir," said Kryten. "You can only feel the first shot. Any second now you should start feeling the anesthetic working its magic."

"Can't come soon eno—" Lister stopped mid sentence, a peaceful smile coming over his face as his body go numb and he lost feeling from his stomach down. "That's so much better," he said, and laid back down with the help of Kryten.

As the medicine began to settle in, Lister suddenly began to feel quite ill. Something in it hadn't agreed with his stomach. His mouth suddenly became very watery and he once again felt the familiar sensation of nausea creeping up on him. His neck and upper chest lurched several times in a violent motion.

"He's going to be sick!" Rimmer cried. "Do something—get a bowl—a bedpan, anything!"

The Cat swiftly grabbed an empty silver bedpan and dropped it onto Lister's bedside table, jumping back just in case Lister did get sick. He was wearing number thirty-seven of his top hundred favorite suits.

Sure enough, Lister leaned over the bedpan and vomited.

"The epidural must not have agreed with him," Rimmer observed. "When was the last time you ate, Listy?"

"Two hours or so," Lister gasped, wiping the corners of his mouth. "Smeg—I sure didn't miss that…"

"Just a few more small preparations before I begin the operation, sir," said Kryten. He stuck a thermometer in Lister' mouth and took his left arm, rubbing an alcohol wipe on the bare skin on the back of his left hand.

"What's 'at or?" Lister said with difficulty because of the thermometer in his mouth.

"I'm going to hook you up to another IV, sir, this will help keep your fluid level up."

Kryten put a plastic clip on the tip of Lister's right index finger. "And this will monitor your heart rate. Now, do you wish to remain conscious during the operation? It's more safe that way."

"Yeah," said Lister decisively. "I want to stay awake."

"I don't know if I do," said the Cat queasily.

"Well, let's begin, then," said Kryten, snapping a pair of blue latex gloves over his angular robotic hands. "Now, where are my assistants…?"

"Pinky! Perky!" Rimmer barked. "Get over here or I'll have all your John Wayne fan magazines flushed out into deep space along with all of your issues of _Play Droid_."

The skutters rolled lazily over and Kryten lifted them up and set them on the raised bench next to Lister's bed. He sanitized each of their beaks with an alcohol wipe and then put specially made three clawed gloves over their beaks . "We're ready to start now, sir." Said Kryten in a very serious tone.

Lister nodded, feeling quite light-headed. His heart was pounding so loud and fast he could feel it beating against his rib cage and was surprised the others couldn't hear it. Kryten gently wiped Lister's sweaty forehead with a damp cloth. His breathing was becoming increasingly difficult.

"It's a shame the father couldn't be here," said Rimmer, shaking his head, as Kryten put an oxygen mask over Lister's face.

"But that'd mean the rest of them too," said the Cat. "And I'd be left talking to the Dog again!"

"Eh! Eh!" Lister yelped as the he vaguely felt the skutters reach under his gown and pull his boxers down. "What're they doing that for?"

"It is a very low incision we will be making, sir," said Kryten. "But don't worry—we will have a sort of cover over you. In a normal operation. I would usually put a plastic tarp-like cloth around you so that you can't see the operation, but there doesn't seem to be any in this medical facility. Well, there was. But it was very unsanitary-- it appeared as though someone had used it as a napkin! But not using it shouldn't make too much of a difference. However, I did find the one intended to cover your stomach during the operation." Lister nodded feverishly.

Kryten pulled back the surgical gown to expose the skin where he would do the incision. He cleaned the skin with a disinfecting cloth, and picked up the electric razor. He turned it on and shaved the area about five inches below Lister's navel. He positioned the blue plastic covering over Lister's stomach with a hole cut out of the material through with the procedure was to be performed.

"Would you like me to use the laser or steel scalpel, sir?"

Lister licked his dry lips. "Which one do you have more experience with?"

"Neither really, sir. Not in serious, life-threatening operations like this."

"Thanks, Kryte," said Lister, less than reassured. "Use the regular one, I'm afraid for you to do the experiment with the laser one."

"Yes, what experience do you have with the laser scalpel, Kryten?" asked Rimmer, his chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand.

"Well, I used one once on the _Nova 5 _to carve a turkey when there were no other available utensils," said Kryten.

"And how did that turn out?" asked Rimmer.

"Well, frankly sir, it didn't turn out as well as I had hoped. You see, they are rather difficult to maneuver at first. The meat was too charred for even the crew member with the strongest stomach—"

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" asked Lister, unable to hide the rise of panic in his voice.

"Of course he does, Listy," said Rimmer in his best reassuring voice. "Raise his morphine," he muttered to the skutters out of the side of his mouth.

"All right, sir," said Kryten. Lister saw the glint of steel as Kryten raised the scalpel and closed his eyes tight.

Sensing Lister's apprehension, Kryten added, "You need to relax, sir. Just think of those beautiful baby boys…"

Lister nodded. A small smile came over his face when he recalled seeing Jim and Bexley as future echoes and the ultrasound images he had seen of them five days ago.

"Better?" asked Kryten.

"Yeah," said Lister, swallowing hard. "Go for it."

Kryten made an incision about six inches long in Lister's lower stomach, cutting through the first layer of skin.

Lister heard the Cat giggle feebly and then a heavy thud—Cat had fainted. Lister chanced a glance at his stomach, saw tons of red, and regretted his decision of looking. He vowed to look anywhere else. He focused on a spot on the opposite wall.

"Sirs, I do believe that Mr. Cat has fainted," said Kryten. "Should we help him?"

"Nah," said Rimmer, waving his hand carelessly. "Just leave him there. We've got other more pressing matters to worry about."

"You can take it from here, skutters," said Kryten, as one of the skutters worked on cutting through and separating the layers of muscle.

Kryten supervised the skutter who was cutting open the muscle wall. "Everything's going splendid, sir," he reassured Lister, who smiled weakly, nodding.

Lister had grown bored with the wall and was now staring at the ceiling, trying to count the tiles but kept getting distracted and starting over again every time he got to three. He was trying to summon up the willpower to resist the urge to peek at what Kryten and the skutter were doing. He didn't know if his stomach could handle it right now. His will power gave in and Lister raised his head as much as possible. He saw a fraction of a gaping, bloody hole in his stomach and quickly looked away, shuddering violently, and laid his head back down.

"All right, we've finished cutting through the muscle wall," said Kryten. "This is where we'll need both of you to help, skutters."

Rimmer cringed as Kryten pulled back on Lister's skin as if it were play putty, so that the gaping red hole was pulled wider. The two skutters held the skin back as Kryten felt around inside and found one of the amniotic sacs. With one hand Kryten grabbed a sharp tool which he used to puncture the sac. He then took the vacuum with the larger nozzle and sucked out the amniotic fluid that was now gushing out of the punctured sac.

"Please tell me that's not the vacuum attachment on your groinal socket I hear," Lister groaned.

"No, sir," Kryten reassured him. "It's just a small suctioner I am using to drain out the amniotic fluids."

Kryten finished and put the vacuum back on the tray. "All right, here it goes. Skutters, apply pressure right here." said Kryten, pointing to a spot on Lister's massive stomach. "But not too hard."

Both skutters pushed down with their beaks where Kryten had instructed. Kryten now thrust both of his mechanical hands into the drained sac. Cat was just now coming to, and promptly fainted again when he saw that Kryten was maneuvering one of the baby's heads out, while pushing back on the skin that was like elastic.

"Ohhh," said Lister, blinking several times. "What's that? I think I almost felt something…"

"Did it hurt?" asked Rimmer.

"Nah," said Lister. "It just felt really strange though, like a tugging feeling…"

The infant's head was now fully visible, his mouth and eyes shut tight, his face a grayish color. It was obvious that he was not yet breathing.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Rimmer, biting one of his hologramatic nails tensely.

"What is it?" said Lister quickly, in a high, panicked voice, trying to lift his head but dreading what he might see.

"He's not breathing yet," said Kryten. "I think it's just some fluids he's swallowed, don't worry, sir. We'll have his lungs up and working in a jiffy."

But Lister didn't stop worrying. Kryten took a small round rubber tool and used it to suction fluids from the baby's nasal passages, and then used other smaller suctioner to remove water from his mouth. His panic circuits still in a frenzy, Kryten gently pulled on the baby's head and the rest of his body slid out of the incision with ease. Kryten swiftly lifted the newborn and placed him on one of the receiving blankets. Kryten suctioned out his mouth again. They waited anxiously, ears strained for sounds of respiration.

The newborn gave a small gasp as he breathed his first breath of air. His chest begin to softly rise and fall. He waved his arms as far as they could stretch into the air as if in a dreamlike state.

Rimmer wiped his hologramatic brow in relief. "Everything's fine, Listy," said Rimmer as the baby began to cry softly, his round face red and his eyelids were bright pink.

Lister sighed in relief and raised his head when he heard the sound, a goofy grin spreading across his face. "Is that Jim?"

"Yep," said Rimmer, amazed. "He's got quite a head of hair. Ten fingers, ten toes, plump. He looks just like you…"

"Let me see him," said Lister, craning his neck eagerly.

Kryten lifted the red, softly crying baby boy up for Lister to see.

"Congratulations, sir!"

Lister gazed at his newborn. His eyes misted over and his mouth hung numbly open, at a loss for words. That didn't matter anyways. He didn't think he could speak, as his throat felt momentarily, hopelessly stuck. He shook his head slightly in disbelief.

"Pardon me if you find this an impertinent question," said Kryten. "But is this a male or female of your species?"

"It should be pretty obvious, shouldn't it?" came Lister's worried voice.

"I don't know, it's quite confusing," said Kryten. "It has what appears to be two umbilical cords."

"That is without a doubt a male, Kryten," said Rimmer. "And only one of those is an umbilical cord— it's the slightly longer black one there that is still leading into Lister. The other one is what you could call his certificate of manhood, better known as a penis."

"Is it supposed to be that large?" asked Kryten.

Lister, who had been listening to their conversation intently, grinned. "So they take after my side, eh?"

"It's normal for the testes to be enlarged after birth," said Rimmer, amazed and embarrassed that even a newborn baby could make him feel quite inadequate in that department. "It's just a shame it doesn't stay that way."

Kryten placed the baby back down, and the skutters took the scissors while Kryten held up the umbilical cord. The skutters clamped the neon black cord in two places. One of the skutters then cut the cord about four inches from his stomach.

"Uh oh," said Rimmer after the cord had been cut.

"What is it?" said Lister with dread.

"Oh, nothing," said Rimmer. "It just missed cutting the cord and went a few inches south. Boy, is he going to be the laughing stock of the shower room."

Lister looked like he was about to faint, when Rimmer said, "I'm only joking, you gullible twat."

Lister breathed a sigh of relief, then glared feverishly at Rimmer. "You bastard. I actually believed you for a moment there. That wasn't funny, man. That was below the belt—in more ways than one."

"Shut up now," said Rimmer. "You're medicated, delusional, and haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

Lister was too drowsy and confused to even come up with a comeback.

As Lister and Rimmer were speaking, Kryten had swiftly moved on to the second birth. Just like with the first birth, Kryten punctured the sac and drained the fluids. He maneuvered the baby's head out through the incision and the rest of his body followed. Kryten suctioned out the baby's airways and let the skutters cut and clamp the cord, before holding the second baby up for Lister' speechless, adoring inspection. The whole operation for the birth of the two boys took roughly five minutes.

"The operation was a complete success, sir," Kryten informed Lister. "Everything went according to plan."

"Thank God," said Lister, and the tension he'd been bottling up for the past five days in anticipation of the delivery was relieved all at once. He instantly felt a hundred and ten percent better, despite the major operation he had just endured.

The babies were almost entirely identical. The only way that Kryten could tell the difference was that the first one born had slightly longer hair. One of the skutters began to work on removing the placenta and cleaning and stitching Lister up. The other skutter went to assist Kryten with preliminary tests on the newborns.

Kryten walked right by Lister's bed with the twins. "Hey," said Lister indignantly. "Aren't you going to give them to me?"

"There are a few crucial tests we must take first, sir," said Kryten. "My sincere apologies."

"Forget apologies," said Lister resentfully. "Can't that wait? Just let me hold them for a minute first."

"Listy, these are essential tests to make sure they're healthy," Rimmer explained. "You can't just skip them."

"I know they're healthy," said Lister. "If you'd just hand them over I could tell you that myself."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Kryten apologetically. "But we simply have to clean them up, take measurements, weigh them, test basic reflexes essential for survival such as the Moro, root, suck, grasp, Babinski, step, and Tonic neck reflexes. There is also a procedure that is much better to perform when they're young and won't remember it, the circ—"

"Basic routine procedures, you know," Rimmer hastily cut Kryten off.

Lister was very anxious to hold his sons, and kept whining and complaining, but both Rimmer and Kryten insisted that the boys needed to be cleaned, measured, weighed, and generally make sure they were healthy. Lister just wanted to hold them now as they were, and make sure everything was okay for himself.

"Can I see them _now?" _asked Lister impatiently.

"Not yet," said Rimmer. "You know what they say, Listy—patience is a virtue."

"Rimmer, the only people who say that are yuppie smeggers who already have everything they want," said Lister.

The Cat began to stir and slowly rose on his feet. "Is it over?"

"Yes," Rimmer informed him. "You missed the whole thing. It was quite fascinating, actually. Personally, I think that this is the most worthwhile thing Listy's ever done in his entire life, possibly even more important than making sure all the dispensing machines never ran out maple crunch bars."

The Cat stepped over to Lister's bed and leaned against the side, examining Lister's face intently. "Buddy, you look awful! You look worse than a movie star on their red carpet premiere!"

"Hey, what do you expect me to look like?" Lister weakly defended himself. "I've hardly slept in days and I've just given birth to twins!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Cat," said Kryten. "Would you be able to hold him for just a moment?"

The Cat was holding the baby at arm's length as if afraid that the newborn would somehow ruin his suit, while Kryten worked with the other one.

"Don't hold him like that, Cat," Lister reprimanded. "He's a baby, not a stick of dynamite. What if you drop him?"

"Just in case you wanted to know," said Rimmer. "The first baby was born at three twenty-three and the second at three-thirty five."

Lister smiled tiredly. "Great, can I hold them now?"

"Just one moment, sir, let me finish weighing this one," Said Kryten.

Lister tried to watch their every move from his place in bed. He could see one baby's small legs kicking from over the top of the scale, and hear the other crying softly somewhere, and his twin soon joined in.

Kryten took Jim from the Cat and wrapped each baby snuggly in a silver thermal blanket after putting makeshift nappies on them. He picked up the babies, one in each arm, and carried them over to Lister, who was watching anyone who got to come in contact with them before he did enviously.

"They are identical in every way, sir. They are both eighteen inches long and surprisingly enough they are both six point nine pounds or three point thirteen kilograms exactly."

"Three point thirteen kilograms?" exclaimed Lister, alarmed. "Isn't that a bit small?"

"It would be considered small for a single birth," Rimmer explained. "But for multiple births that is a very decent birth weight. Think about it this way, Listy—the normal, full-term weight at birth is anywhere from two point seven to four point one kilograms. Together, your babies are close to one stone. Frankly, it's a miracle there was room in you for the both of them."

"They're each perfectly, one-hundred percent healthy. It is truly a miracle, especially under these rare, unprecedented conditions. There you are, sir, mind their heads." said Kryten, handing Lister his twins sons.

Lister stared at them in wonder as they were placed in his arms, his warm brown eyes softening. He buried his head next to theirs, nuzzling their necks. He breathed in their sweet newborn scent, showering kisses on their soft, warm faces. Kryten gently placed several pillows behind Lister to prop him up.

"Which one was born first?" asked Lister fascinatingly.

"The one in your right arm, sir," said Kryten.

"So you're Jim," whispered Lister to the small baby in his right arm. He looked to the baby held in his left arm "And you're Bexley…"

He examined the infants in his arms carefully. They had round, plump, pleasant-looking faces. They each had tightly swirling, curly dark hair. When they chanced to open their eyes and stare up at him, Lister saw that they had a newborn's slate gray eyes. They had faint eyebrows and Lister could already see that their features were identical to his. He recognized their noses, their mouths, their tongues with the funny line down the middle, his ears, his chin. Lister examined their small, delicate hands and feet in awe. He inspected each appendage several times to make sure that there were the right amount of digits on each of them. Five fingers on each of their hands—good. Ten total on Jim, ten on Bexley. Twenty all together so far. He counted their toes—five, five, five, five. Good. Everything was fine here as well. All forty digits were present and accounted for.

He was amazed that he could hold one of their entire hands around just one finger—that when he offered his index finger to them they would instinctively grip his finger with their whole hand, which didn't even entirely circle one of his fingers. Either that or they would try to put their small mouths over his finger.

To him, they were the most beautiful things that he had ever seen. They were each perfectly formed, flawless and perfect in every way. He couldn't have asked for better.

Lister already felt an incredible, overpowering wealth of affection for his new sons. He hadn't known that it was possible to love anybody so much the moment you laid eyes on them.

Lister felt an all too familiar sensation as of late when the corners of his eyes began to burn. "They're beautiful," he sobbed, as Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten looked on ardently. "Look at them. They're perfect. Gorgeous."

"Buddy, if you gush anymore I think I'm going to be sick all over you," said the Cat.

"Are you sure that's what you want to name them—Jim and Bexley? After a football player?" said Rimmer suddenly. "I think they should have good, strong names—like Sterling, or Ninianus."

"I don't really understand the whole name thing," said the Cat. "But I know that if I was called either of those names I think I think I'd have to form my own self-help group!"

"You can't change my mind," said Lister stubbornly. "I've already decided on their names."

"It's not too late to change your mind, Listy," said Rimmer. "I happen to think Ace is an excellent name."

"I already know what I name them," Lister reasoned. "My future echo told me that I name them Jim and Bexley. Plus I had always planned it that way."

Rimmer continued to suggest names, each one more hideous than the last, and Lister tuned out after he heard the proposition of Livingston. He became hopelessly, irretrievably lost in his own thoughts.

It was all worth it, everything he had been through in the past nine days was more than worth it. He had a new understanding respect for women and everything they went through. Just look what he had now, two perfect, beautiful sons, albeit noisy. These two helpless, fragile little creatures whom he had brought into the world and were entirely dependent on him to sustain their lives and to protect them.

He also felt a great sense of pride—he, Dave Lister, the former last human alive, had at last made his contribution to society and brought two more humans into the world. He had single-handedly tripled the population of his species. This thought struck Lister powerfully: he was no longer the last human. The human race now numbered three, and it was all because of him.

Rimmer surveyed Lister discreetly. He really had no fear of Lister noticing his gaze of scrutiny, his bunk mate was much too enthralled with his new children and the joys of motherhood. Rimmer could hardly believe that the slobbiest entity in the entire universe, Dave Lister, had actually gone through with it all. What really through him off, however, was that he had succeeded spectacularly. It had always been a known fact in society that men could not give birth to babies. They also said that it was impossible to have a double helping the body's most useless appendage too, but Lister had proved them wrong on both occasions.

The man was completely useless. He man never amounted to more than submissive Third Technician—a nobody. He had spent ten years as a trolley attendant at a Megamart. He only had ninety-seven minutes of art college under his belt. He couldn't even remember than one is supposed to change their underwear daily. But somehow, because fate was a cruel bastard, this man was the last human. It could have been anyone else to survive—it could have been him! But somehow, it was this slobby, ill-mannered, grossed-out, curry-guzzling, lager-chugging vending machine repairman was now the proud mother of two and Rimmer hated to admit to himself that he held some miniscule admiration for Lister. The man had sacrificed all of his favorite things—curries, lager, and cigarettes, had endured great physical and mental anguish, and had come through in the end. Rimmer hated to admit it, but as he watched Lister lovingly interact with his newborn sons, he suddenly gained some small new respect for his irritatingly optimistic, chirpy, gerbil-faced inferior officer.

Lister raised his head and saw Rimmer watching him. "What?"

"Nothing," said Rimmer quickly, shaking his head to clear it and tearing his eyes away from Lister and the twins.

"How's it going, dudes?" said Holly, suddenly coming up on the screen.

"Where have you been?" Rimmer demanded. "You missed the whole birth!"

"No, I saw it all," said Holly. "Disgusting, that was. Worse that that thing that burst out of John Hurt in _Alien._ I was busy looking through records."

"What records?" asked the Cat. "I told you it's no use looking, I am the unchallenged finest guy who has ever lived."

"I looked through the history of everything," said Holly. "You may be pleased to know that you have broken several records and even created some new ones, Dave. First pregnant man, then first man pregnant with twins, then the fastest pregnancy ever recorded, first person to get pregnant by sleeping with themselves in another universe, the first caesarean birth of identical twins three million years into deep space performed by a mechanoid and two three-clawed mechanical disasters on wheels, and first pregnancy conceived in another universe."

Lister thought this all over and grinned. "Cheers, Hol. I always knew I'd set some kind of record, but I always figured it would be for most vindaloo consumed without it cascading out both ends."

"I think this calls for a celebration," said Kryten, picking up the box of cigars. "My good taste chip tells me it's customary for humans to hand out cigars after a birth," said Kryten, as he passed the box to Cat, and Rimmer took a pre-generated hologramatic cigar.

"Hey, wait a minute!" said Lister hastily, looking protectively down at Jim and Bexley. "You are not smoking those things in front of them. Especially since I never got to smoke when I was pregnant with them!"

"Very well, my apologies, sir. I'm taking the epidural out now, if you don't mind. You might want to start to regain the feeling in your legs soon." said Kryten. "And I am putting you on a rather powerful pain medication." Lister leaned forward and Kryten removed the needle from his back.

"They're still crying," said Lister helplessly. "What should I do?"

Rimmer grinned wickedly. "They're probably hungry."

Lister shook his head and pretended he didn't hear Rimmer's comment. He'd honestly rather put up with the crying.

"Well, if they're hungry, why don't you give them a sandwich or something?" said the Cat, as though this was the most obvious thing in the universe. "That's what I would do!"

"A sandwich?" Lister repeated incredulously. "Does it look like they've got any teeth?"

"Well now," said the Cat, looking highly offended. "If you don't want my advice, then you shouldn't ask for it!"

"No one did ask for your help, you gross ignoramus," said Rimmer harshly. "If we wanted advice from a gibbering moron we'd watch the daily news reports."

**AN: There you are—a whopping fifteen page update! This part was a blast to write—I think it's obvious I had some fun here. There's more to the scene, but I'll post it later as this update is already rather long. Here, I would like to credit my sisters, who have each been pregnant in the past year for some of the influence & ideas in writing this story. My sister lived at my house during her entire pregnancy so I saw firsthand the peculiar behaviors. One of my sisters actually had a c-section with my nephew, so she was an unknowing candidate in an interview on what happened in the operation and what it felt like. (It leaves a pretty knarly scar.) I tried to be as accurate as possible with writing the c-section. **

**And to radelhorror's question of how many chapters there will be—I honestly don't know yet. It depends on how big I make each update. On my Word file, this update ends at page 102 of 238 (I hope that's okay!) I don't know how I managed to write so much with the three days they spent with Jim and Bexley. There's still the possibility that I'll cut down some parts that restate things we already know and some things that I want to alter when I get there…anyways, I hope this update with the birth lived up to (or beyond) its expectations. Please review!**


	16. Future Echoes

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf a creation by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor

Notes: The Future Echoes scene is inspired by a mix of the scene from the show and the scene from _Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers _pages 139 and 159-160.

**Day 9, Part 3**

"I wish we had a camera," said Kryten suddenly. "I've always wanted to take up scrap booking."

Lister nodded. A thought suddenly came to his highly medicated brain—him, screaming newborn babies… a camera…

"I've got to get up," said Lister suddenly. "I've just remembered something really important I have to do!"

"You really need to have bed rest for the next three days at least," insisted Kryten. "But if you really feel you need to…"

"I do," said Lister, as Kryten removed all of the wires and IV's from Lister's body.

"Will I be able to walk?" asked Lister.

"I'm not sure, sir. Just to be on the safe side, I insist that you stay in bed," said Kryten.

"The only way to tell is to try," said Rimmer, shrugging. "But you could hardly even manage walking before."

"I can't move me legs!" exclaimed Lister in horror.

"Of course you can't," said Rimmer impatiently. "That _is _what a spinal block does."

"You have no muscular control from the abdomen down, sir," Kryten informed him.

"But I have to get up," said Lister. "There's no time to explain."

"If you really feel like it's that urgent, sir," said Kryten. "You'll need to take some synaptic enhancers to combat the epidural medication and get your muscles in your legs functioning again. You could try without it, but your legs might still feel numb. And please try not to put any strain on your stitches." Said Kryten fussily.

"It might actually be quite funny," said Rimmer.

"And painful," Cat added.

"Men don't know true pain," said Lister. "Not until they've been through what I have. We're a bunch of wimps, us guys. I can tell you now that men have zero pain tolerance compared to women. You think getting kneed in the groin hurts? That's nothing compared to this."

Kryten had prepared the syringe. The mechanoid inserted the needle into the back of Lister's neck. The fluids from the needle trickled down Lister's spine, enabling some small amount of feeling to return to his lower body as the nerve enhancers began to work.

Lister realized he hadn't even looked at the stitches yet. With great difficulty, his arms filled with the babies, he lifted the robe up by his pinky finger and immediately wished he hadn't looked.

It was horrible. The six inch incision was red and purple, blotchy and inflamed. The incision was stapled and stitched up haphazardly. It looked like something out of a science fiction horror film. He hoped it would hold. He wasn't keen on getting it redone.

"Someone help me get me legs over," said Lister. Kryten moved forward and gently gripped Lister's bare ankles, bringing them around the side of the surgical table. Lister slid down from the table, his bare feet landing numbly and unsteadily on the floor. He swayed haphazardly where he stood and Kryten steadied him by gripping his shoulders.

Rimmer shielded his eyes and turned his head. "For Pete's sake, somebody tie up the back of his robe!"

Kryten quickly tied the back of the robe closed.

"Thanks, man," said Lister. He looked down at his screaming babies. "Isn't there anything we can do to calm them down?"

"There's the blue pacifier I found," said Rimmer. He nodded towards the medical supply cabinet. "It's in there."

The Cat strode over and dug through the cabinet at which Rimmer had nodded towards. A moment later he held up the pale blue pacifier. "Here it is! Anything to make them shut up!"

"Give it to Jim," Lister instructed, nodding towards the wailing baby in his right arm. "He's crying worse."

Cat stuck the pacifier into Jim's mouth. He spit it out, looking frustrated, and the Cat picked it up and forced it roughly back in. Jim only screamed louder, the pacifier bobbing up and down in his mouth as he wailed. Bexley matched him in pitch and temper.

"What's wrong with them?" asked the Cat.

"Well, there could be several things that are bothering them," said Kryten. "It could be the fact that they were just born, the painful inoculations they each received, or it could possibly be the circumcisions."

"Oh, you're in pain, aren't ya, boys?" cooed Lister sympathetically." It's all right, I'm here…"

"You might be able to try walking now," said Rimmer.

"Okay—here I go," said Lister, taking a few unbalanced, wobbly steps. He veered, stumbling several paces to his right. He seemed unable to walk in a straight line. The Cat leapt forward and gripped Lister's shoulders, steadying him. "The door's that way, bud."

"I know that," said Lister, flustered. "I was trying to walk there but it's like I have no control over me legs," said Lister, as the Cat steered him in the right direction.

"That could possibly be because you shouldn't be out of bed in the first place," said Rimmer plaintively.

Ignoring Rimmer, Lister stopped in front of a mirror and looked at himself critically. He jumped slightly when he saw himself. He looked like death and hadn't had proper night's sleep for over forty-eight hours. His smooth face was flushed and pale. His eyes were dark and weary. But the grin on his face compensated for all of this and was the only thing on his face which seemed alive. He looked just like he remembered his future echo looking, and so did Jim and Bexley. Perfect. Time to go.

He turned and waddled on stiff, numb legs out of the medical unit, wincing in pain. He was still mostly numb from his belly button down, but he was starting to regain some feeling, and he had the unpleasant sensation that the contents of his stomach were spilling out of the crudely stitched incision.

The door slid open and he stepped outside the doorway of the medical unit, turned to an angle, and stared into an empty spot where he knew that Rimmer and his past self holding a camera were standing.

"I can't see you but I know you can see me, and all that guff," Lister shouted over the twin's crying. "But I'd like you to meet your twin sons. This is Jim—" he nodded towards the screaming baby with the blue pacifier in his right arm. "—and this is Bexley," he said, looking down at the baby in his left arm.

He paused for a brief moment as waited hopefully for their crying to cease somewhat. He realized that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

"Oh, stop crying and say 'cheese' boys!" he hugged the twins closer, and struck a pose, grinning widely. He waited a second for the camera that he knew was there but couldn't see the flash, before turning and heading back for the medical unit.

While Lister was gone recreating the photograph moment he had seen months ago, Kryten fussed about the medical unit, cleaning the surgical tools and putting them away. He converted the surgical table into a bed, and was fluffing up the pillows when Lister walked back into the medical unit, trying to soothe the twin's crying.

"Shhhh," he was saying tenderly, to no avail. "It's all right… stop crying…"

"Mr. Lister, sir," said Kryten. "You really should go back to bed, you need time to relax and recover. I'll take you to the recovery bay."

"Sounds good, Kryte," said Lister, walking stiffly towards his bed. Kryten held Jim and Bexley while Lister struggled back onto the bed with the help of the Cat. Once Lister had managed this simple task that seemed an extraordinary feat to him, Kryten placed the newborns back in Lister's arms and wheeled the bed carefully through the hatchway from the medical unit's surgical bay to the recovery room.

"Would you like to increase your pain medication, sir?" asked Kryten. "I need to administer you antibiotics to prevent infection as well."

"That would be great," said Lister, who was starting to regain feeling in his abdomen and limbs. Kryten stuck two IV's into Lister's left arm.

"It would be highly beneficial for you to get some food into your system," said Kryten evocatively. "Are you hungry, sir?"

"Starving," Lister responded.

"Excuse me while I go and prepare a meal tray, sir," said Kryten, as he turned and marched mechanically away.

Rimmer and the Cat moved over to stand by Lister's bed, both look intently at the newborns in Lister's arms.

"Amazing, isn't it?" said Rimmer.

Lister nodded in agreement. "I can hardly believe it meself."

"Yes," said Rimmer in accord. "How can something so small make so much noise?"

"Eh?" said Lister, looking confused. "Oh, that."

"Are they _supposed _to look like that?" asked the Cat critically.

"Like what?" Lister demanded.

"All small, red, and wrinkly? Is that sound supposed to come out of them?"

"I dunno," said Lister, frowning. "I hope it's normal."

"That's just their way of letting you know when they're tired, hungry, need their nappy changed, need attention," said Rimmer. "And even sometimes for no reason at all."

The Cat looked from Jim and Bexley to Lister and back, shaking his head. "Buddy, they look so much like you it's creepy."

Lister gazed at the babies fondly. "Yeah, they really do, don't they?"

"Of course they do," said Holly. "Most children get certain, specific traits from both parents, right? That's what Punnett Squares are used to show. Well, you and Deb are essentially the same person and have the same DNA. Therefore, the twins are complete genetic copies of you, because there weren't two sets of genes to mesh. They may as well be your clones."

Lister grinned. "Lucky boys. Does that mean they'll like all of the same stuff I do then?"

Rimmer grimaced. "Unfortunately, there is a very good possibility of them being exactly like you in every way."

"Great! Now we'll have three chimpanzees who'll think they can play guitar," groaned the Cat. "I'll have to have earplugs the size of hamburgers—I don't think my ears can take it!"

"But I can play the guitar!" Lister insisted.

"If you had tried to play that guitar while you were pregnant I genuinely think there's a good chance you might have had a miscarriage. That's just how bad you are, believe it or not," said Rimmer.

"I don't believe it," said Lister, shaking his head. "Haven't you ever heard my Indling Song? It's fantastic."

"Yes," said Rimmer snidely. "It'd be a great listen for someone if they ever needed a little background music to encourage their suicide attempts."

"I despise this," said Lister, insulted by their remarks. "I really do."

"Well," said Rimmer. "Look on the bright side—there will only be one guitar among the three of them. It could be worse."

"Yeah," exclaimed the Cat. "A certain lone guitar could have a little accident involving the waste disposal unit or ten tons of incinerex. That would be just tragic."

"Here you are, sir," said Kryten, coming into the medical unit and placing a tray of tomato soup, a dinner roll, fresh fruit cocktail and a bowl of cherry jello in front of Lister. Once Kryten had deposited the tray he lifted the twins up from Lister's arms.

"Hospital food," Lister muttered in distaste, picking up his spoon. "I've had more than enough of this kind of smeg lately. Can't I have some vindaloo yet?"

"If that is what you desire, sir," said Kryten. "I must insist, however, that you take at least two bits of your fruit cocktail, or no vindaloo for you."

"I feel like a little kid," said Lister, picking up his spoon and dipping it into the container of fruit. Lister shoved the spoon filled with apricots, cranberries, and mandarin oranges into his mouth. He shuddered, swallowing with difficulty. He scowled with distaste, and swallowed another spoonful, throwing down the spoon. "There. Now can I have some chicken vindaloo?"

"Of course, sir," said Kryten, exchanging Lister the twins for his nearly untouched food tray. "Now, was that really so bad?"

"It was worse than having dinner with a politician," said Lister as Kryten marched out of the room. "And don't forget the papadams!"

"Ye-es," said Lister cheerfully, as Kryten returned with Lister's Indian food not a minute later. Lister ignored Rimmer's disapproving looks and started in on his meal once Kryten had taken the twins yet again.

Kryten placed Jim and Bexley's flailing bodies on a cushioned counter, and dressed them in satin one piece outfits that he had found in Lister's sleeping quarters under some video tapes of Zero-G football seasons. Jim was now adorned in a highly stylish creamy white sleeper. Bexley was wearing a pale blue ensemble.

Kryten watched the twins while Lister finished eating. "They sure are lively ones," Kryten gushed. "Oh, and they look just like you, sir!"

When Lister was done Kryten whisked the tray away. He came back and handed the still screaming twins to a more than impatient Lister.

"Mr. Lister, I have a suggestion," said Kryten, "I would love to watch them while you have a much-deserved rest."

"Thanks for offering, Kryte," said Lister. "But I think I've got it under control."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "We're good."

"In that case, may I have permission to power down, sir? I need to finish re-charging my batteries if I am to function tomorrow. Are you sure you'll be alright on your own for a few hours?"

"Course I will," said Lister. "And I told you not to ask for my permission to do something you know you need to do."

"I just thought under the circumstances… if you need anything, just push this red button," said Kryten, placing a small black remote on Lister's bedside table.

"I get my own call button?" said Lister gleefully. "Brutal."

"Yes, sir, just push that button and I'll be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail." Said Kryten. "Just let me fluff up those pillows again for you."

Lister leaned forward and let Kryten fussily plump up his pillow. "There you are. "

"Thanks, Kryte," said Lister appreciatively.

"Good night, sir. Remember, don't hesitate to call if you need me."

"You really are a lifesaver, Kryte," said Lister, as the mechanoid leaned forward and waggled his finger under the each of the boy's chins. "'Night."

"And good night to you two too," said Kryten. "Oh, they are so adorable…" Kryten turned and marched out of the medical unit.

The Cat yawned hugely. "This has all been really exciting, but I think I'll be going now. A Cat needs his fifteen hours of sleep a night. See you monkeys later," said Cat, and he too left.

There was a long, awkward silence between Lister and Rimmer after Kryten and the Cat laughed. The only sounds were the soft cooing of Jim and Bexley.

"So…" said Rimmer finally. "How does if feel to be a mum?"

Lister rolled his eyes at Rimmer. "You can't really describe it, can you? Not until it's happened to you. I'll tell you one thing—pregnant women aren't completely bonkers. At least I can sympathize with them now. And it's totally worth it in the end—just look what you get out of it!"

"How do you feel?" Rimmer prompted. "Surely you must feel different about life onboard now that you actually have some responsibilities."

"I had responsibilities before," Lister protested.

"Like what? Making sure that the food dispensers never got out of practice? You never worked or lifted a finger for that matter, all you do is slob around. But that's all going to change now, isn't it? You'll never get a break with two newborns to look after, you know. You'll be chasing after them for the next eighteen years and beyond. You have no time to yourself anymore. And you're very sadly mistaken if you think that you can rely on me, Cat, or Kryten one-hundred percent of the time. Sure, I'll teach them everything I know, maybe they'll even become officers. But the rest is up to you, miladdio, and I'm highly skeptical if you're up to the challenge of raising two children on your own."

"Come on, Rimmer," said Lister, sounding slightly angry. "I can handle this. You said so yourself, remember? Sure, I'm scared as hell, but it'll all work out. How hard can it be? Didn't you say they'll be just like me? I practically know them already. Won't they be into the same stuff as me if they're practically genetic copies?"

"Not necessarily," said Rimmer, then he stopped and thought before adding, "I hope not, anyway. Just what we need, two more copies of you."

"It'll be great fun, won't it?" said Lister grinning cheekily at Rimmer. "I can't wait. Couldn't come soon enough."

"Just the other day you were all in a panic because you said you had no idea what you were doing," said Rimmer.

"And I still don't," said Lister. "But I feel a little better now that I know at least I have Kryten to help me out."

Lister at least had a point there. Rimmer was presently in the doorway of the Medical Unit on his way out to order the skutters to make the ship more baby-friendly, when something held him back. He made a gruesome face, squinting his eyes, wrinkling his nose, pursing his lips, and clenching his fists. He couldn't ignore this nagging from his subconscious. He stomped his foot and did an about-face, turning so he was facing the recovery bay again. "Lister?"

Lister looked up at him with his weary, shadowed eyes. "Yeah?"

"I-I'm—" Rimmer stammered. He wasn't good at this kind of this thing. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, and looked down at his feet. _Just go on and say it, _his brain urged. He swallowed, still looking downwards. "I'm really…I'm proud of you, Listy."

Lister nodded slowly, looking slightly taken aback. Was Rimmer serious? "Thanks, man," he said uncertainly.

Rimmer opened his mouth to reply, closed it, opened it again, and closed it, then changed his mind entirely and swiftly departed, biting his fist in memory at the inelegance in which he had administered his compliment.

He found one of the skutters in the hallway, carrying a long syringe. "Put that away," he ordered, his face still red. "He doesn't need that anymore. And does this ship look like a safe place for babies? It's filthy! Clean everything, okay? And get to work putting padding on all sharp corners of the walls. Got it?"

The skutter nodded, the needle still clamped in its beak. It didn't wish to dispose of its duties yet, it was having too much fun.

Lister sat dumbly for a few moments, perplexed by his shipmate's sudden peculiar behavior, the praise that was rarer than one-hundred year old Balsamic . He sighed and looked down at the screaming newborns in his arms, hoping he could handle anything they could dish out at him.

"He's lost it," Lister said to Jim and Bexley. The twins stared unblinkingly up at Lister, trying to focus their ill-adjusted eyes on his face.

"It's just us now," Lister said. "Who fancies a curry?"

**AN: I know Jim and Bexley look older than newborns in the show, but I'm going by their description in IWCD (see the note at the beginning of this chapter.) Also, I needed to find a way for Lister to be able to walk immediately after the surgery for the Future Echoes scene. I'm sure that in the future they've made some huge strides in medicine, even something that could possibly combat the effects of an epidural. Also, thank you to Gray Aibou for pointing out that I was only accepting signed reviews. I've now fixed the settings so anonymous reviews are now enabled. **

**Also, I don't know how many fans have the Red Dwarf Smegazines, but there is one issue with a lovely comic relating to the last chapter I updated. I made scans of the comic. If anyone would like to see them, go to my profile page. I have a link to my livejournal there where the images are posted.**

**kellyofsmeg**


	17. The Discovery

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor.

**Day 9, Part 4**

Later that same hour, Lister was still alone in the medical lab with the twins, who were no longer crying, but were perfectly content and sleeping peacefully, much to Lister's relief. He had piled up his pillows behind him to help support his back, and was sitting with his knees up with one baby propped up against each thigh with their feet resting on his stomach. He serenely watched their drowsing faces and the steady rise and fall of their chests. He couldn't look at them without smiling with wonder.

Lister was completely enthralled with them. He clasped their tiny hands in his as they slept. He was beginning to feel quite drowsy himself. He hadn't slept in what felt like two ice ages. But at the same time he didn't want to take his eyes off Jim and Bexley. He was terrified that something horrible would happen if he fell asleep—if he wasn't watching them constantly. Without knowing it, he was right.

Lister noticed something odd just then—Jim's baggy satin pajamas appeared tighter on him. He unbuttoned the shirt and saw something that he thought was peculiar. Jim's four-inch long clamped umbilical cord had already shriveled up to something so tiny that it resembled a raisin. It fell off when Lister touched it, leaving a perfectly formed belly button where the cord had been not long ago. Slightly panicked, Lister checked Bexley as well and found the same thing. Lister dismissed this finding as nothing. It was just his imagination. He'd been way too paranoid lately. If they both had it, it must be normal. Lister shrugged it off and fell into a deep sleep. It wasn't worth bothering the others about.

Lister slept gratefully undisturbed for forty minutes before two things woke him. The first thing was very irritating—the stitches in his stomach were itching like mad but he couldn't reach down to scratch them. The second thing was that Jim and Bexley were awake again and crying fussily.

"Come on now, boys," said Lister groggily. He slowly opened his weary eyes, snapped them shut and blinked several times. His heart leapt to his throat as he stared at the screaming twins, his eyes wide.

Was it just his imagination, or did they look much larger than when he drifted off to sleep forty minutes ago?

No, it wasn't… the satin pajamas they were wearing appeared to be stretched too tight, and Jim and Bexley were screaming in discomfort. Bexley's eyes opened for a few seconds. Bexley stared at Lister with pain in his eyes, which were no longer slate gray, but pools of warm brown indistinguishable from Lister's.

Lister fumbled with the stylish buttons, ties, and clamps all over the pajamas the pulled them off the screaming babies. Holding the two outfits up, he looked from the satin pajamas to the screaming babies and back. Yes, the clothes were without a doubt too small for them. How could they have possibly outgrown them already?

Lister made soothing shushing noises, setting the clothes aside. He transferred the twins one at a time from their resting place on his thighs back into his arms. He rocked them back and forth, kissing their foreheads. They were each now wearing only their nappies, and were visibly shivering. Lister cast his eyes about the room for larger outfits that they could wear but saw nothing. Even if there was, he wasn't sure that he'd be able to retrieve them without some assistance. He instead wrapped them securely in their silver thermal blankets and held them closer to his body for warmth.

Lister noticed that they were each drooling a fair amount. He took the edge of his white surgical gown and dabbed at their chins and the corners of their mouths, when he noticed a flash of white in Jim's mouth.

Frowning, Lister gently pulled down Jim's lower lip and saw a single white tooth cutting through his bottom gums. Deeply vexed, he examined Bexley's mouth—yes, he too was cutting his first tooth.

"Ouch," said Lister, "That'd explain the crying."

Lister admitted that he didn't know much about babies. He had always thought any information regarding children would be trivial, since he was the last male of his species. When he wasn't the last of his species, he didn't plan on starting his own family until he did loads of practicing the things it took to get a family. He honestly didn't know when babies started teething, so he decided to call Kryten.

Lister hit the red button on the control with his elbow. The button made a high pitched bleep that seemed to upset Jim and Bexley even more. Lister waited for Kryten to appear, wishing there was something he could do to help his sons.

Kryten appeared moments later, bustling in fussily. "Do you require my assistance, Mr. Lister, sir? I was just on my way to come check in on you when I was summoned."

"Kryten, do you notice anything odd when you look at them?" asked Lister, watching Jim and Bexley intently.

"They certainly look like they've already had their first growth spurt," Kryten observed.

"Yeah," said Lister, not looking up. "I think something's wrong…"

"Oh, it's always normal for human mothers to suspect that something's wrong with their offspring, sir, but I'll have a look if you wish," said Kryten. He swooped down and carefully lifted up the twins from Lister's arms. Jim and Bexley wailed with even more temper when they were taken from Lister.

"What d'you think is the matter with them now?" asked Lister, his eyes following Kryten as he crossed the room with Jim and Bexley.

"It could be a number of things," said Kryten, who was currently examining the pupils of Bexley's eyes. "They could be tired."

"They just woke up."

"Hungry?"

"No," said Lister, scratching the back of his neck.

"Have you burped them, sir?"

Lister nodded, chewing on the end of one of his locks.

"Oh, dear," said Kryten suddenly laying the twins carefully down on the counter. He turned around and grabbed a towel from the medical supplies cupboard.

"What is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about, sir," said Kryten, wiping off his chest plate. "Just a bit of spit up. But it's quite alright. Serving humans is my greatest joy—no matter how unpleasant the task."

Lister shook his head. "Sorry about that, man."

"It's quite alright. Do you mind if I ask what happened to their clothes, sir?"

"They've already outgrown them, Kryten," said Lister. Jim and Bexley turned their heads in Lister's direction when they heard his voice. "That's one of the things I'm worried about."

"But that's impossible," said Kryten. "The clothes were a rather snug fit to begin with, but they're only just over an hour old. There is simply no way they could have already outgrown their clothes."

"Well, there's definitely something weird going on here," said Lister stubbornly. "I know there is."

"You're right," said Kryten, his back to Lister, Jim and Bexley on the counter again. "They need their nappies changed."

"Is that it, then?" said Lister, relieved. "Is that why they're crying, they just needed their nappies changed?"

"I think so—" Kryten said, stopping abruptly, making a startled sound.

"What is it?" said Lister, craning his head to try to see past Kryten's back.

"Sir—I was changing young Mr. Jim's diaper—he—he—he urinated on me, sir!" blustered Kryten in shock.

"Did he now? That's my boy," said Lister, chuckling, causing the stitches to tug and ache. He reached under the surgical gown and scratched at the stitches furiously.

At that moment Rimmer walked into the room, and glanced from Kryten wiping off his chest plate to Lister, who was itching fervently at his stitches.

"Stop that!" Rimmer ordered. He would have slapped Lister's hand away if he could have. "Don't pick at them, it'll get infected!"

"But they're so itchy!" Lister whined. "It's worse than when I had the chicken pox! It hurts like smeg!"

"And you're only making it worse, so stop it," Rimmer snapped. He strode over to where Kryten was changing Jim's nappy and did a double-take. "What's happened? They've gotten huge!"

"So you think they look bigger, too?" said Lister, looking up, concern etched all over his face. "So it isn't just my imagination."

"No, they don't even look like newborns anymore! They look like they're at least four months old!" Rimmer took a closer look at Bexley as Kryten pinned up Jim's diaper and moved onto Bexley.

"They're teething!" Rimmer bellowed. "How is that possible? They're each already cutting their first—" Rimmer jumped back in alarm, just missing being urinated on as Bexley followed Jim's lead.

"You almost got the smeghead, Bex!" Lister cheered. "You'll get 'im next time me lad!"

"It's not funny," said Rimmer sternly. "These are my best pajamas."

"You're a hologram," Lister reminded him. "You can't touch anything and nothing can touch you, so don't worry about it."

"Thanks so much for reminding me yet again that I don't have the awesome privilege of being alive," Rimmer spat. "But as I was saying, it is not normal for babies who have only been in the world for roughly an hour and twenty minutes to be teething."

"It's not?" said Lister, looking sick to his stomach. "It's not just a bit precocious?"

"No, Lister. This is beyond them simply being 'precocious.' Being able to keep their eyes open for longer than three seconds or smiling would be considered precocious. There's something funny going on," Rimmer said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Do you really think so?" asked Lister anxiously, his heart sinking.

"I know so," said Rimmer. "And I'll prove it to you. Oh, Holly, can you spare us a moment of your valuable time, please?"

Holly's blonde head appeared on the screen. "Yes, what is it?"

"Take a look at the twins, Holly," said Rimmer.

"Yeah, I see them," said Holly. "What is it?"

"Do they look at all different to you?" Rimmer pressed on.

"Yeah," said Holly, squinting. "I'd say that their circumcisions healed rather nicely."

"What's going on, Hol?" said Lister impatiently, as Kryten pinned up Bexley's diaper and dressed them in larger, high-fashion one piece footies. "You can't say it's normal for them to getting teeth already."

"No," said Holly, after a moment of thought. "I think you're right about that, Dave."

"Well?" said Rimmer impatiently. "What's going on?"

"What's going on with what?" asked Holly blankly.

Rimmer rolled his eyes. "This may seem an impertinent question, Holly—but I have to ask: have you always been this stupid, or are you making a special effort today?"

"What he means," said Lister. "Is what the smeg is happening around here? Why is everything happening so fast?"

"I'm not entirely sure," said Holly. "But they could be suffering from highly accelerated growth rates. Since they were conceived in a parallel universe, it could very well be that our physical laws don't have any effect on them. They've left the universe of their origin, see? So their universe's physical laws still work with them, and are different than our own, causing ageing anomalies."

"Are you trying to say that their ageing process is speeded up, just like Lister's pregnancy?" asked Rimmer, a computer-generated light bulb momentarily flicking on above his head in Holly's ill-humor.

"That's exactly what I think I'm saying," said Holly. "Actually, I'm surprised I didn't think of this possibility earlier."

"I'm not," Rimmer sang.

"Accelerated growth rates?" Lister croaked from his place in bed, ashen-faced, and they all turned to look at him. "How can this smeg happen to me twice?"

Kryten scooped up the twins and carefully handed them back to Lister. Lister stared at the twins closely. Their faces were definitely different, older than the ones he had first gazed upon almost an hour and a half ago.

"How fast are they ageing, Hol?" asked Lister, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Let me see…." Said Holly, doing some quick basic mathematics. "They were born one hour and twenty-five minutes ago, and all the signs show that they are currently four and-a-half months of age. According to my calculations, they age three months per hour, each month lasting for around twenty minutes."

Lister looked from the twins to Holly in horrified shock. "_Twenty minutes a month?"_

"Yes, she's right," said Kryten, as he too did the mathematics in his head. "Going off those calculations, with the twins ageing three months per hour, in roughly twenty-two hours and thirty-five minutes, Jim and Bexley will be six years old."

"_Six?" _said Lister faintly, his stomach churning nastily.

"They're ageing six years a day?" said Rimmer, aghast. "How can any living thing cope with that? They'll have a shorter life expectancy than your average lemming."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" said Lister desperately.

"We could wait to see if the physical laws between the two universes sort themselves out," said Holly. "That's the only feasible solution I can think of."

"What about the stasis booth?" Lister suggested. "Can't we put them into stasis to stop the ageing until we figure out a way to fix this all?"

"Afraid not, Dave," said Holly. "The stasis booth would do them more harm than good. You see, since the twins originate from a parallel universe, where many things are reversed. This would include the stasis booth. Instead of freezing time, it would speed it up for them. Their ageing process would be increased. They'd die of old age two minutes after the stasis booth is activated."

"Smeg!" said Lister, closing his eyes in despair. "There's nothing we can do?"

"Afraid not, Dave," said Holly solemnly.

"Wait a minute," said Lister, counting on his fingers. "I'm no math whiz or anything—but if what you say is right, shouldn't my pregnancy have only lasted around three hours?"

"Yes," said Rimmer, snapping his fingers. "What's that all about, Holly?"

Holly squinted as she thought. "That's a good question, that is," she said finally.

"Come on, Hol," said Lister. "There's got to be a reason."

"The only thing I can think of is that since you originate from this universe and your twins don't, the physical laws of the two universes had to mesh somehow. The twins were developing at a very fast rate, but Lister's body was also slowing down the progression because of the different physical laws here. They compensated for each other. The twin's physical laws and ageing rates didn't come into full effect until they were separated from Lister entirely—when the umbilical cords were cut."

Lister thought for a moment, watching Jim try to fit his entire foot into his mouth. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense…"

"Sir, it's been a very long and tiring day for you," said Kryten. "Perhaps you should get some sleep to help you feel better and then think the situation over."

"I can't sleep now!" Lister exclaimed. "I might miss their first steps!"

"With the way you sleep?" scoffed Rimmer. "They'll be shaving before you wake up."

"Why can't anything ever go right for me?" said Lister resentfully. "Being abandoned… me dad dying… me step mum leaving, my gran getting hit by that truck… being smeg awful at school, my band going nowhere, breaking up with Lise, dropping out of art college… getting drunk and winding up on Mimas, meeting you, Rimmer… joining the Space Corps… breaking up with Kochanski, adopting Frankenstein and getting put into stasis, waking up to find the crew is dead and I'm the last human, having to spend an eternity with Rimmer, and now this. My one shot at happiness and now this whole smegging time anomaly! It's not fair! It feels like my life keeps getting pulled out from under me feet like a throw rug, just when I start to get used to it. It isn't smegging fair!"

"Life isn't fair," said Rimmer simply. "Look at me. Do I deserve to be dead? No! I deserve to be an Officer, a Captain, even! I should be rolling in caviar, a girl on each side, with a huge tub of whipped cream. But do I get that? No! You see, Listy, sometimes life can be a cruel bitch and there's nothing we can do about it."

"I suggest that we make the best of a bad situation," said Kryten. "If I were you, Mr. Lister, I would seize this opportunity to spend as much time as possible with them in the time that you have, and teach them everything I know about life before it's too late."

"You're right, Kryte," said Lister grimly. "That's exactly what I'll do. I'll teach them everything I know."

"Yes, that might take up an entire afternoon. Wouldn't it be much more effective if I took that role?" said Rimmer. "Uncle Arnie will teach them everything he knows. The first thing I'll do is teach them to read, as Lister will be useless in the academics department."

"I can read!" Lister protested. "I don't like it much, but I can. I'll be the one who teaches them how to smegging read!"

"Yeah right," Rimmer scoffed. "You've never even really read a book in your life, you said so yourself. You know perfectly well that it will be Kryten and I who pass onto them all of life's valuable lessons. You'll be too busy making up for endless packs of lager and ciggies you missed out on. You have all the maturity of a twelve year old with the natural instincts of a maladjusted pygmy."

"You really don't think I can handle this?" asked Lister, offended. Rimmer shook his head vigorously. "I'll show you, then."

"You aren't exactly the ideal role model," said Rimmer. "You drink, you smoke, you have no sexual morals, obviously—minimal education, you're a slob, you hadn't even heard of Shakespeare until you met me—"

"I'm all they've got," said Lister quietly.

"No, they have me! I'm a great role model! I can pass down all of my wisdom. Plus, I'm also motivated, organized, clean—I can teach them fantastic pick up lines for girls. Plus I'm a fantastic swimmer…"

"Yeah," said Lister. "You, a man who keeps his underpants on coat hangers and can only manage to get a date if the girl either has concussion or a false nose and is hypnotized. You're a great role model if I want to give them an example of what a cowardly smeghead of a man looks like. A person for them to never become. Or if I want them to see a walking advocate for abstinence."

"Oh ha, ha, very funny," said Rimmer flatly. "But you'll be begging for my words of wisdom in no time and I'm not sure I'll be willing to help you."

"Great," said Lister. "That settles that, then. Just one less thing to worry about," said Lister, as he noticed that Jim and Bexley each had four teeth coming in at once.

**AN: This chapter was a challenge for me. It involved numbers. I do not like math. I am not a math person. The 18 years/ 3 days 6 years a day part was easy, but after that I needed a calculator. Math is my enemy. I like English. In English, you can creatively write about a way for 2+2 to possibly equal 5. Poor Jim and Bexley… I really wish that they were able to stick around longer in the show. Three days. ( Anyways, please review!**

**kellyofsmeg**


	18. Choices

**Day 9, Part 5**

Jim and Bexley were now six months old, and had only been born two hours ago. Lister had discovered that they now became quite interested in looking at their own hands and feet. They would often just stare at him, smiling toothily, and he would beam back at them. They made cooing sounds and babbled whatever came to their minds, but would also imitate sounds around them. Lister could have sworn that he heard Bexley shout, "Smeg!" when he dropped his pacifier.

Jim kept trying to roll over onto his back. They could sit up on their own, and even looked in Lister's direction when he said their names.

Rimmer had gone off to do some more reading on the different stages of child developmental milestones, a section on the book that he had barely glanced at yet for obvious reasons before the birth.

Whenever Kryten tried to assist Lister by holding one of the twins, they would look panicked and cry until they were returned to Lister. Rimmer said that he had read about this, that at around five months babies start to experience separation anxiety when removed from the presence of their parents.

Lister was deeply dismayed that they were growing up so fast, and was having trouble not showing his disappointment. As soon as he had gotten used to one of the stages his sons were at, they were already moving on to something new. He knew that if Holly didn't find a solution to the increased ageing process soon, their days together would be numbered.

Lister tried his best to act cheerful, fearing that Jim and Bexley might somehow catch onto his poor mood and start crying again.

Their hair was growing at an alarming rate. By the time Jim and Bexley were just over two hours old, they were each already sporting decent-sized afros. It was only when Lister loudly complained that his sons were starting to look like members of Jackson 5 that Kryten had brought in an electric razor and given both of the boys buzz cuts, leaving their hair long in the back at Lister's request.

Lister had Kryten bring him a comb and some wax, and he was presently twisting Jim's long curly hair into Rasta plaits, while the boys played with the wooden alphabet blocks. Now the twins truly were identical to him with their new locks. It was a long process, but Lister figured that he might as well do it before they were mobile, then they would never sit still long enough.

Lister had now finished the dreadlocks, and was sitting with his legs over the side of his bed, bouncing one rapidly growing baby on each knee.

"When can we move back to the sleeping quarters, Kryten?" asked Lister, wincing as Bexley painfully tugged on his hair.

"Well sir, if you'd really like my opinion, I highly recommend that you stay here and recover a while longer," answered Kryten, who was busy folding a pile of laundry which he had moved to the medical unit so he could perform his duties while keeping a watchful eye on Lister, Jim, and Bexley.

"I'd like to head back as soon as possible," said Lister. "I don't like the whole hospital thing. Too white. Too clean."

Lister tickled the twins under their chins and they bubbled with laughter. Lister grinned widely. Over the past couple of hours he had learned to love their lively giggles and tried to get them to come out as much as he could.

Lister began to itch at his stitches again. Kryten looked up. "Listen to Mr. Rimmer, sir," said the mechanoid. "Itching will just slow down the healing process and make you more prone to serious scarring and infection."

"I can't help it!" said Lister helplessly. "It itches like mad!"

"I know what I can do to help," said Kryten.

"Anything, please," said Lister desperately.

Kryten put a hold on his laundering duties, setting down the iron. He dug through the medical supplies and found a tube of superpower itch soothing cream and some cloth bandages.

Lister moved Jim and Bexley from his lap and sat them down so they were sitting propped up against his legs. He permitted Kryten to cover the swollen stitches on his stomach with the soothing cream. Kryten then wrapped some white ace wrap bandages around Lister's middle.

"There you are, sir," said Kryten, as Lister pulled his surgical gown back down. "That should help prevent you from scratching at it, and should also give your stomach wall some support. My data files tell me that after a caesarean section, the patient often holds a pillow to the incision when they walk for support."

"Yeah, that sounds right," said Lister. "It's a really funny feeling—like even though you're all sutured up, you still feel like your guts are falling out of your side when you stand up. Maybe it's just a mental thing. How long until it heals?"

"It will take around six months for the incision to completely heal," said Kryten. "And it will most likely leave a scar. So long as you don't pick at it the scar should be barely noticeable."

"Is there anything else you can do for the pain?" asked Lister hopefully.

"Well, if you think you are capable of responsibly monitoring your own dosage of pain medication, you can have a patient controlled implant able infusion pump, sir."

"What's that then?" asked Lister keenly.

"Well, it is a device where you can regulate the amount of opiate's that are administered into your body. It is entirely portable and will do just fine until the pain has subsided to a level where oral medication will do the trick. All you have to do is push a button."

"Sounds good, Kryte," said Lister. "I like buttons! Let's do it."

"Let me just warn you, sir," said Kryten, as he cleansed Lister's skin before inserting the catheter. "It can be highly addictive, so you must be very careful."

"I will, I will," said Lister, wincing slightly as he felt yet another needle prick his skin. Kryten finished inserting the infusion pump and instructed Lister on how and when to use the pump to avoid addictions.

Jim leaned forward suddenly as if to grab at something beyond him, and nearly toppled off the bed. Lister yelped and caught Jim by the back of his shirt. Lister gently lifted Jim back onto the bed, saying "Easy now, Jim. You scared me there!"

The near-accident had startled Jim as well. His lip began to tremble and his eyes started to water as silent sobs wracked his body.

"No, no," said Lister, reaching for Jim. "Please don't start crying again…" He brought Jim close and hugged him against his chest. "Not again…"

Jim had begun to whimper, and Bexley looked up at his brother from his place near Lister's knees and began to whine as well, wanting the attention his twin had. Lister motioned to Kryten, and Kryten lifted up Bexley and placed him in Lister's other arm.

"It's like they have chain reactions to each other," said Lister as he rocked the twins back and forth. "When one of them starts crying, the other one does too!"

"Twins are often quite similar to each other in many ways, sir," said Kryten. "Or it could be that they are fighting for your attention. Children are rather like most celebrities in that manner—they only get their way through tears and tantrums."

Kryten resumed his ironing. Lister cradled his two whimpering sons, making soothing sounds and talking to them. Within moments their eyelids began to droop and they were drifting off.

Lister watched Jim and Bexley as they slept. He didn't dare try to sleep himself, he was afraid of what he would miss. As he watched their peaceful sleeping faces, he noticed that they didn't seem to be ageing if he didn't take his eyes off them. They seemed to stay at the age they were. But if he ever glanced away for even the slightest moment and looked back on his sons, they looked older. The only things he could think to relate the concept to was when you got a pet kitten or a puppy and watched it grow up every day, you didn't notice it get any larger or mature. But if you had a friend come over occasionally, they would tell you how much it had grown. Ageing seemed to be less drastic and more gradual if you watch it constantly.

So Lister decided to watch Jim and Bexley unceasingly. In his mind this would slow everything down—these peaceful, silent moments where he could just hold them and watch them sleep, just simply enjoying being together. When he watched them lovingly it seemed that he was able to make their accelerated ageing stop and he willed that he could. He was terrified that if he looked away time would speed up again. They would be too big for him to hold. Next second they'd be teenagers, then his age, then older than him, and then they'd be dead and gone before he knew it.

Lister couldn't let this happen. So he just decided he'd never look away from his beautiful sons. That way he could become desensitized, and even if they were ageing, he'd be watching them, so it wouldn't seem like they were ageing at all.

Lister bowed his head down and kissed the top of their heads. He willed this moment to last forever. If only things were that simple.

By the time Jim and Bexley had woken up from their slumber an hour later, their chronological age was nine months. They should have only been three hours old.

After yet another wardrobe change for the rapidly growing twins, Lister discovered that the boys had now learned to crawl. They wanted to be mobile and were no longer entirely content with simply lounging in the hospital bed beside Lister. They wanted to explore the world around them that they couldn't get enough of. Jim and Bexley's preferred forms of exploring the world around them were through touch and taste. Kryten followed the twins around with a sanitary cloth, cleaning off everything they had explored, or rather, slobbered on.

Lister smiled to himself as he watched Bexley try to stand. His tiny hands gripped the lower side of Lister's bed as he tried to pull himself to his shaky legs. Bexley lost his grip and fell backwards onto his bottom. Jim was sitting beside Bexley, knawing on his fist as he babbled incoherently to himself.

Lister watched his sons, trying to remember everything they did, trying to fix every little detail about them into his memory. He knew that his time with them would be short-lived and precious, and he wanted to make the most out of it, and be able to have memories of them when they weren't with him anymore. But Lister elected not to think about that right now. He was still ever optimistic that Holly would figure something out. In the meantime, Lister ignored the nagging voice in his head that kept reminding him how short their time together was and tried to remain as cheerful as he possibly could, for them.

"Would you like anything, sir?" asked Kryten, standing dutifully beside Lister's bed.

"Yeah," said Lister. "Jim and Bexley are probably hungry again by now. D'you think they're able eat solid food yet?"

"Yes, I believe so, sir," said Kryten. "They do have quite a few teeth. What should I bring them? Something easy to chew, I think… how about some mashed peas and carrots or some applesauce?"

Lister pulled a face. "They don't want that smeg! They'll like and hate all the same stuff I do, right? We'll just have some sugar puff sandwiches."

"Sugar puff sandwiches?" Kryten repeated. "I'm not sure I know what those are, sir."

"They're just two pieces of buttered white bread—white, no wheat—with bits of that sugar puff breakfast cereal piled in the middle," Lister explained. "They're really good. Me and the band used to live off those when I had me own flat in Liverpool."

"All right, Mr. Listers," said Kryten, addressing the three Listers in the room. "I'll be back in a moment."

Lister slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and lowered himself to the floor, now that Kryten wasn't in the room to fuss that he get bed rest or change his bandages frequently, and Rimmer was too busy doing research to nag him. He was finally able to get out of bed and interact with his sons, who were exploring their new mobility, discovering that their limbs actually did have functions.

Lister gingerly sat down on the floor beside Jim and Bexley. He fondly ruffled their curly hair. Their dreadlocks were coming along very nicely, and their hair was continuing to grow at an astonishing rate. Jim was currently clapping his hands together, looking delighted at the sound they made when he brought his two small hands together. Bexley was still very interested in his fist.

Lister clapped his hands too, and Jim beamed, giggling in delight. Lister snapped his fingers and Jim and Bexley stared at him, their mouths open, wondering how he had done that. Lister laughed and did it again, to more blank stares of wonder.

"You like that, eh?" said Lister. "Well, watch this!"

Lister bent his thumbs on both hands. On his left hand he covered the mid-digit of his thumb with his pointer finger. He brought his two bent thumbs together so they were lined up. Then, Lister slowly moved his left hand away from his right, giving the allusion that he had removed his thumb. He regretted this almost instantly.

Jim and Bexley stared at Lister's hands in open-mouthed shock. Then they looked at each other in horror. Jim and Bexley simultaneously began to wail once again.

"No, no!" said Lister quickly, holding up both his hands to show them he hadn't really lost his thumb. "It wasn't real, see?"

Jim and Bexley looked at Lister's hand doubtfully. Lister held out his hand so they could see for themselves that his hand totally intact. Hesitantly, the boys reached out and touched Lister's hand. It was only when they felt for themselves that his thumb was in fact still in place that the smiles returned to their faces. Jim and Bexley bubbled with laughter, finally getting the joke. Lister sighed with relief and lifted the boys up onto his knees, hugging them tightly.

"Breakfast is served, sir," said Kryten, as he arrived with a tray of sugar puff sandwiches. He saw that Lister wasn't in his bed.

"Sir, I suggest that you return to bed. You need to recover from your operation."

"Don't fuss over me, Kryte," said Lister. "I feel great. The pain medicine is fantastic. Besides, I want to spend as much time with them as possible."

"You're only saying that you feel fine because of the medication. But I can't stop your will if you really insist on doing so, sir—"

"I do," said Lister, as Kryten set down the tray of sandwiches in front of Lister. "Thanks, man."

"Do they look to be to your satisfaction, Mr. Lister?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "They're perfect. Just like I like them."

Lister began to break one of the sandwiches into pieces. "Don't make the pieces too large, sir, or they could choke," Kryten cautioned.

"I know," said Lister, surprised that he truthfully did know that little bit of information somehow. Maybe he did possess some small amount of common sense.

He showed Jim and Bexley the bits of the sugary sweet sandwiches, and they opened their mouths eagerly. Lister placed a small portion of the sandwich in each of their mouths. They seemed to enjoy it, because they kept opening their mouths for more and more.

Lister yelped and quickly withdrew his hand from Bexley's mouth. "Smeg! That hurt!" Lister looked down at his index finger, and the tiny teeth marks where Bexley had chomped down.

Lister waited until they had their share before having some of the sandwiches for himself.

Rimmer entered the Medical Unit. "What are you doing out of bed?" he demanded.

"Spending time with my sons while I still can," said Lister, who was currently assisting Jim and Bexley in building a tower of alphabet blocks.

"You're just prolonging the time it will take to recover," said Rimmer.

"It's worth it," Lister answered simply, as Jim knocked down the foot-high block tower gleefully.

"How old are they now?" asked Rimmer.

"Nine and half months, Mr. Rimmer, sir," said Kryten.

"Have you figured anything out yet, Hol?" called Lister hopefully.

"I'm still working on it, Dave," came Holly's reply.

"Well, can you think a little faster, please?" Lister pleaded, as Jim and Bexley fought over the Z block even though there were twenty-five other blocks to play with.

It was just after six o'clock in the morning. Kryten had wandered off to go perform some of his many cleaning duties on the ship. The Cat was still sleeping. Rimmer, Lister, and Jim and Bexley were all still in the Medical Unit.

"Look at them," said Lister fondly, watching the boys play with their blocks together on the floor. "Look how well they get on."

"Don't get too attached to them," Rimmer cautioned. "Remember, they'll only be living here for a few days."

"I know, I know," said Lister despondently. "But it's really hard not to. I mean, they're just so adorable!"

"For now, yes," Rimmer muttered.

Lister, who was still heavily medicated, began to rise to his feet. "Rimmer, would you mind watching them for a moment?"

"Me?" cried Rimmer, aghast.

"Yeah. I need to go to the loo. I'll only be a moment."

Lister shuffled out of the Medical Unit, leaving Rimmer with Jim and Bexley, who were still playing contentedly with their alphabet blocks on the floor.

"So," said Rimmer. "You're babies, then. How's that working out for you?"

Jim and Bexley didn't even acknowledge that he had spoken. They didn't even look in his direction. Rimmer looked down at himself to make sure he was visible. Did they know he was there? Could they see him? Or did they just not care? _They're just like Lister. They had absolutely no respect for the dead_, Rimmer decided.

"Fine," said Rimmer. Did he actually expect them to respond? All they could do right now was babble to themselves. "I'm a Hologram, obviously, so I can't join you down there. But we can talk, of course. Or at least I can. The two of you sound like you're speaking Vietnamese! Maybe if I talk to you enough, you'll pick up my accent instead of Lister's irritating Scouse accent."

Rimmer glanced down at the infants on the floor. He had to admit that they were rather cute little tykes, pleasing to the eye. Their round, cheerful faces lit up as they jabbered to each other and passed blocks to stack. There was a certain charm about their sparkling brown eyes and chirpy smiles as well. Lister must have done something right for once in his life.

Jim bent down to pick up a block and his head was coming back up. At the same time Bexley was lowering his head to pick up the same block Jim had grabbed, too late. The result was that their heads collided with a nasty resounding thump.

Rimmer cringed. "Ow—that had to hurt."

Just his luck. He had only been watching them for a minute. He would surely get the blame from Lister.

Rimmer covered his ears as Jim and Bexley both screamed at the top of their lungs. Their heads throbbed painfully. Rimmer thought he could already see bumps coming on their heads from the accident. Their faces were beet red and tears were rolling down their round cheeks.

Rimmer wondered if Lister would believe him if he said the bumps were there when he left._ No_, Rimmer decided. _Not even Lister would buy that one._

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't touch anything. He couldn't pick them up. All he could do was try to get them to stop crying before Lister came back.

"Shhhh!" pleaded Rimmer, pressing a finger to his lips. "Come on now, stop that! Do you want your mum to get mad at me?"

Jim and Bexley squinted at him, and only sobbed louder. At that same moment Lister rushed into the Medical Unit. He glanced at the twins, and then glared at Rimmer.

"What did you to them?" he angrily accused. "I was only gone a minute!"

"I didn't do anything!" insisted Rimmer defensively. "They did it to themselves! They both reached for the same block and they banged their heads together like a couple of coconuts!"

Lister strode over to the howling twins and knelt down beside them. Frowning, he felt around the tops of their heads and found the swelling, golf ball sized bumps The twins put their hands up into the air and Lister scooped them up into his arms. "Oh, you boys are getting heavy…"

He rocked them back and forth, whispering to them comfortingly. They buried their faces into his shoulders, dampening his shirt with their tears.

"Thanks a lot, Rimmer," Lister said irately. "Can't you do anything right? I'll have Kryten or the Cat watch them next time."

"What was I supposed to do?" said Rimmer, flustered. "I saw it coming, but it's not like have done anything about it! I could I can't touch anything! I'm entirely generated by light, or have you forgotten that my very being is generated by a computer?"

"How many times can you use that excuse?"

"It happens to be a very good excuse," said Rimmer. "You can hardly blame me for what happened!"

"Still," said Lister angrily, not able to think of a better argument. "Still." He repeated.

"Do you honestly trust the Cat more than me?" asked Rimmer, offended.

"I do now," said Lister, shielding the twins away from Rimmer. "I won't let him hurt you boys again…"

Rimmer rolled his eyes.

"Owww, did somebody say my name?" asked the Cat, as he twirled and spun into the room. "I can't sleep with all that crying! Have you considered putting plugs in their faces?"

The Cat stopped and stared at Lister, who was still holding Jim and Bexley. The Cat slowly raised his finger and pointed at them. "Wait a minute," he said slowly, his brow furrowing. "Weren't they a lot smaller the last time I saw them?"

Lister sighed deeply, and he and Rimmer sat down to explain Jim and Bexley's rare, lamentable condition to the Cat.

Rimmer ran his hands through his hologramatic hair in frustration, so that it stuck up in every compass direction. Lister was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the surgical bed, with Jim and Bexley nodding off to sleep whilst sitting contentedly on his lap.

Lister and Rimmer were both more than irritated. They had been trying to make the Cat understand Jim and Bexley's dilemma, to no avail. They may as well have been trying to explain the Theory of Relativity to a box of matches.

"Let's try this again," said Rimmer. "See these babies that Lister's holding? Their names are Jim and Bexley. They're actually hardly babies at all anymore. Sure, they may only be chronologically less than four hours old, but physically they are almost one year old."

"How?" asked the Cat for the umpteenth time.

Rimmer sighed. "They are suffering from time anomalies, as I believe I have already stated—what is it now—twenty-eight times?"

"But what is it?"

"Highly accelerated growth rates," said Lister in a low voice.

"How hard is this to comprehend?" said Rimmer. "They're afflicted with rapid ageing because they are in a universe with different physical laws than the one they were conceived in."

"But what does that mean exactly?" asked the Cat.

"It means they're growing up too fast!" Lister nearly shouted.

"Ohhh," said the Cat, comprehension slowly dawning on his face. "You mean they're on super speed? Why didn't you just say that?"

"It wouldn't have mattered," said Rimmer testily. "You're more daft than the son of a village idiot and a traffic conductor."

"So how old are they now?" asked the Cat.

"Around eleven months," said Lister despondently, stroking their curly hair affectionately.

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?" asked the Cat. "I mean, sure you're missing out on a lot of good times with them, but isn't that what you used to want? It's one of the glorious, beautiful, wonderful things about having children, remember? They'll be out of your hair sooner than you thought."

"Of course it's a bad thing! Things are different now, man," said Lister. "They're missing their entire childhood. We're losing time that we can never get back!"

"Holly's trying to come up with a solution to stop the ageing process and save them as we speak," said Rimmer. "But she's moving slower than a zamboni through a sand pit."

"Holly," Lister called. "How's the solution coming along?"

"What?" said Holly, appearing on the monitor. "Oh, right, sorry, I completely forgot to look into that. I've busy trying to close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be blind."

"Holly!" said Lister, outraged. "We're losing precious time here!"

"She's completely useless," said Rimmer, shaking his head. "We might as well put a can of pickled herring in her place. We wouldn't even notice the difference. In fact, I think we'd be twice as productive as we are now, meaning that we might actually be doing something besides going in circles."

"No, I do have an idea. I'm not completely useless," Holly insisted. "But you're not going to like it, Dave."

"Let's hear it," said Lister in resignation.

"Why don't we give the Holly Hop Drive another try? There's no way that I know of to change the physical laws here. The only logical solution to stop the ageing is to return them to the universe of the origin." Said Holly.

"You mean bring them back?" asked Lister slowly. "Leave them there?"

"Well, we'd have to," said Holly. "We can't very well stay there."

"Of course not," said Rimmer. "I couldn't stand living with—_her."_

Lister buried his face in his hands. "You mean I'd never get to see them again?"

There was a long silence in the room that was broken only by the sounds of Jim and Bexley's soft snores.

"That's very likely," said Holly finally. "We'd be lucky if we used the Drive again and even found their dimension one time. Finding it a second time would be like finding a way to get out of a round a 'round in Paris. But it's the only way to save their lives. By the end of the day today, they'll be six. Tomorrow, twelve, the next day, eighteen. In three and half days they'll be older than you, Dave. They would be dead in under a fortnight."

Lister didn't speak for several moments as the news sank in. He stared at his son's peaceful faces, his brain and heart feeling equally heavy with dread. The others stared determinedly at the walls.

"There's no other way?" asked Lister desperately.

"Afraid not, Dave," said Holly solemnly.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice," said Lister in pained resignation. He looked down at the sleeping twins. "It's the only way I can save their lives."

"How about we give you some time alone with them while I get the Hop Drive ready?" Holly suggested.

"No," said Lister. "They're only babies. They need me! No way am I abandoning them there right now! I'm going to keep them here with me as long as possible. Until they're eighteen at least—I want to be the one who raises them. Their time's ticking away. It wouldn't be fair for me to keep them too long. They deserve to live their own lives normally. I want to spend time with them, get a chance to be a dad to them. Even if it's only going to be three days. I don't want them to be abandoned like I was."

"All right, Dave," said Holly, deeply heartened by Lister's speech, she left the monitor.

Rimmer and the Cat didn't speak. The Cat placed a hand on Lister's shoulder and looked into his eyes, nodded once, and smiled.

"Good choice, Listy," said Rimmer, as he and the Cat left the Medical Unit, leaving Lister with Jim and Bexley, and their precious, sixty-eight hours together that were slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

**AN: So Lister's days with Jim and Bexley are numbered now. I hope that I got his reaction right. Also, when Lister gives them dreadlocks, I know that dreadlocks are started off and form over time, but for the sake of the story and only having three days with Jim and Bexley to write, they pretty much have the perfect Rasta locks with minimal effort for the sake of the story. Especially since Rimmer says in Future Echoes, "Well, you wearing a hat—but it was definitely you." I wanted to complete the image of Jim and Bexley looking just like Lister by adding the dreadlocks. Please review!**


	19. Snookie

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor

**Day 9, Part 6**

Jim and Bexley were now thirteen months old, and very lively. Their mannerisms were as identical as their faces, and everything about them was uncannily like that of Lister. They seemed to have their own way of communicating without using words. Kryten told Lister that this was called cryptophasia, and that it was common in identical twins.

Lister was kneeling on the floor. The Cat standing coolly beside him, joined by Rimmer and Kryten. Currently, Lister was devotedly trying to coax Jim and Bexley into taking their first steps. They had greatly progressed in their attempts—when they had first tried to walk, they had put one foot forward and then bring their other foot up on top of the foot they had stepped forward with. They would lose their balance and fall over each other every time.

"Come on, boys," Lister crooned, his arms outstretched, as Jim and Bexley stood on unsteady legs about a meter away from Lister. "You can do it…"

"It's not that hard," the Cat prompted. "All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other and off you go! It's so easy even I can do it!"

The twins each took one shaky step forward together. They all held their breath in anticipation. Lister beamed as they both placed one foot in front of the other.

Jim and Bexley's faces were glowing, their eyes twinkling, at the excitement of finding out their previously hopeless legs had now become walking sticks. Together, they took another few wobbly, unbalanced, frenzied steps forward before they reached Lister and collapsed into his waiting arms.

"You did it, boys!" cried Lister, showering their faces with kisses. Rimmer, Kryten, and the Cat all clapped and cheered. Jim and Bexley seemed to glow even more, became bashful at the attention they were receiving, and shyly buried their faces against Lister's chest.

"Watch, watch," said Lister. "I bet they can do it again!"

Lister stood up and placed the twins a further few feet from where they had been before, and went back to where he had been sitting.

"Come to daddy," Lister beckoned.

Jim and Bexley once again tottered over to him, this time with slightly more control. They once again reached Lister and fell into his arms, bubbling with laughter. Lister hugged them tightly. "You can do it! You can walk!"

"It's curious to me that anything should ever have to learn to walk," said Kryten thoughtfully. "I never had to learn. It was simply built into my programming."

"Yeah," said Lister. "But you're also brainwashed to serve humans and do smeg all for yourself, remember?"

"Serving humans is my greatest joy," said Kryten sincerely. "Right along with doing the laundry and watching _Androids."_

"That sounds like a lot of fun!" exclaimed the Cat. "It sounds almost as much of a good time as getting a Brazilian bikini wax!"

"You have an A.I. chip," said Lister. "That means that you have a personality. Some big shot got to decide on your personality. That should be your job, man. You should be the one who decides on your personality, what makes you you. You deserve to live your own life the way you want to. I'll make you break your programming."

"Do you really think you can help me to disregard my factory settings?" asked Kryten hopefully.

"I'll do everything I can," said Lister, wrestling Jim away from the biohazardous waste compartment. "But I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment."

Now that Jim and Bexley could walk, everybody had to be constantly on their toes. For Lister, there was no such thing as a break. He was constantly following behind them as they explored the ship, their eyes wide in wonder as they drank up the unfamiliar world around them.

"No, Bexley!" cried Lister, pulling Bexley's finger away from one of the ship's many electrical outlets. "Jim—don't put that in your mouth!"

He took the silver marble away from Jim. "Where did you find this?" he wondered aloud.

Lister yawned widely, painfully stretching his arms above his head. He was more tired than he could ever remember being in his life, but this was not the time to sleep. Jim and Bexley had to be constantly supervised, or else they most likely wouldn't even live to be eighteen.

"Hey bud," said the Cat, appearing next to Lister. "How's it going? Hey, you found my shiny thing! I've been looking for that!"

"You can't leave things like this lying around, Cat," said Lister, as he pressed the marble into the Cat's palm. "Jim could have choked on it."

"Well, you'd have to be pretty stupid to try and swallow a marble!" exclaimed the Cat. "It doesn't look like any food I've seen."

"Yeah," said Lister. "But he doesn't know that yet. He's only a baby, Cat."

"Dad!" a small voice chirped.

"Dad?" a second voice echoed.

"I mean, you can't just—" Lister stopped abruptly, glancing unsurely behind him. He stuck his finger firmly into his ear and rotated it several times.

Lister and the Cat glanced at each other, each wondering if they had heard what they thought they had heard.

"What was that?" said Lister, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Can you say it again?"

"Dad!" the boys chorused.

Lister laughed gleefully. "What d'you know? I'm their first word!"

'That is pretty impressive," the Cat agreed. "I don't think that most kids say their first words the same day that they're born—I know for a fact that I didn't say my first word until I was at least three times their age!"

"Rimmer! Kryten!" Lister called joyfully. "Come and see this!"

Once Rimmer and Kryten had joined them in the corridor, Lister said, "Say 'Dad' again, boys."

"Dad!"

"Lister," said Rimmer disapprovingly. "Don't get me wrong—I think it's great that they just said their first words—but do you really think it is appropriate for you to allow them to call you dad? You're only confusing them. You gave birth to them, and that clearly classifies you as their mum."

"They can call me what they want," said Lister. "It doesn't really matter to me. If they want it to be dad, then dad it is."

"Wow," the Cat whistled. "You know that you've got some messed up kids when they don't know whether to call you mum or dad!"

"Let's see what else they can say," said Rimmer. He knelt down so he was face to face with Jim. "Can you say, 'Rimmer,' James? Or better yet, 'Uncle Arnie?'"

Jim stared at Rimmer for several seconds, a shy smile playing on his round face. He turned away from Rimmer bashfully and looked for Lister.

"Uncle Arnie," said Rimmer again, slowly. Lister muttered something the others couldn't hear.

"Come on, Rimmer," said Lister, after several minutes of Rimmer unsuccessfully trying to coax Jim into speaking. All Jim had done was stubbornly shake his head. "Jim doesn't feel like talking. And why would he want to say your name of all people? He's a smart lad—he knows a smeghead when he sees one."

"No," Rimmer corrected. "He knows a role model when he sees one. Someone who can shape his life, and look up to, a mentor, if you will."

Lister rolled his eyes and watched Rimmer in mild amusement as he pleaded with a toddler to say his name.

"I'm Arnie," said Rimmer, pointing to his nametag sewn onto his uniform. "Uncle Arnie. Now, who am I?"

Jim glanced at Lister, and then looked Rimmer straight on. He smiled, and took a deep breath before shouting, "Smeghead!"

Rimmer stumbled back onto his bottom in shock. Lister laughed, loud and jovial. "That's me boy!"

"Hey!" exclaimed the Cat, nodding approvingly at Jim. "That kid is a damn fine judge of character!"

"You told him to say that!" said Rimmer, pointing an accusing finger at Lister. "You whispered it to him behind my back!"

"I did not," Lister lied, pretending to sound outraged. When Rimmer turned around again, Lister smiled and winked at Jim.

"That is quite impressive, sir," said Kryten. "You must be very proud."

"I am," Lister assured them. "I only wish I could slow everything down..."

"I understand, sir," said Kryten, in the most sympathetic voice that a mechanoid could muster. "At least I think I understand how you feel. It must be similar to the sense of dread I get when I wonder where my vacuum bags disappear to so quickly."

"We all wish that there was a way to slow it down," said Rimmer. "At this rate I'll never have the time to teach them everything I know about astronavigation."

"Yes you will," said Lister chirpily. "Actually, that lesson can't last more than twenty seconds."

"Oh, ha-ha, Mr. Smug git," muttered Rimmer. "What exactly did you plan on teaching them, how to trim their toenails using their teeth or how to get sufficiently drunk in under one minute?"

"No," said Lister. "Like never open the door for an encyclopedia salesmen unless you have a frying pan and hot oil on hand. I can teach them how to play guitar, how to make a perfect shami kebab, all about women and earth, everything I've learned about life..."

"You might want to be careful what you say to them about women," Rimmer advised. "Because in their home universe females are the dominant sex. After hearing your stories, they'd be in for a bit of a shock once they're thrust into their universe."

"Yeah," said Cat. "You might want to start with, 'don't sleep with any of them or you'll end up with an unwanted pregnancy, just like I did!'" said Cat.

Lister stared at the Cat as though he had grown a third head. "D'you really think I'd say that to them?"

"Well, it's true," said the Cat.

"Maybe when I first found out," Lister admitted. "But things are different now."

Jim and Bexley had entered into the terrible twos. The twins not only looked alike, their thoughts were alike, as well as their speech and mannerisms. They were inseparable.

Their young, rapidly growing brains were like sponges absorbing everything around them. They seemed to learn a new word every minute, and their looks were constantly changing and maturing.

Jim and Bexley wanted to explore every nook and cranny of Red Dwarf. Nothing was off limits to explore with one, two, three or even all five of their senses. They both wanted to explore the same things at the same time but were unwilling to share. They were each very stubborn, and wanted their own way all of the time. It got to the point where there was no reasoning with the lively toddlers. If they didn't get their way, it resulted in a double tantrum that almost instantaneously gave Lister's exhausted brain a migraine. They basically only used two words, 'no' and 'mine.' To Rimmer's disappointment, he saw that the damage had already been done. They both spoke with distinct Scouse accents, just like Lister.

"It's mine!" Bexley whined, as he wrestled with Jim for the stuffed bear Lister had found in the cargo decks, which they had affectionately named 'Snookie.'

"No!" screeched Jim. "Mine!"

"No!"

"Mine!"

"NO!"

"MINE!"

"Boys," said Lister gravely, his face in his hands. "Please stop fighting. Can't you share it?"

"No!" yelled Jim, as he tugged at the bears head.

"Mine!" Bexley screamed, his face red as he furiously tugged on the bears feet.

The twins continued to fight over the bear. Lister watched them, his head pulsing and throbbing as if someone had a power drill to his skull and was trying to break through. Lister tried to stay calm as he thought of what he could do to resolve their problem with the minimal amount of tantrums. He seriously thought that if he let them carry on pulling at the bear, it would tear clean in half like a person tugged apart by horses going in different directions, and it would be the end of that problem.

"Please?" Lister pleaded pathetically as a last attempt.

"Here, let me try," said Rimmer. He pointed a threatening finger towards the tirade tykes. "You're going the right way for a smacked bottom, you hear me?"

"Rimmer!" Lister protested. "That's not up to you!"

"They need order and discipline, Lister," said Rimmer, puffing out his chest. "A father figure, if you will."

"They're my kids. Just leave it to me, alright?" said Lister, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"Sir," said Kryten. "Might I suggest removing the bear from them? You know what they say—out of sight, out of mind."

"Good idea, Kryte," said Lister. He reached down and pried the bear away from their grabbing hands. "If you boys can't share than neither of you can have it."

"No!" they shrieked in unison. "Snookie! Snookie!"

"No Snookie," said Lister firmly, as he shut the bear into a medical cabinet that was above their reach and locked it. "Not until you two can get along."

Jim and Bexley screamed and cried and kicked and pounded their fists on the floor.

"_Snookie!" _they wailed.

Lister looked to Kryten and Rimmer for help, unsure of what to do.

"Just let them cry themselves out," Rimmer advised.

"It just seems so cruel," said Lister.

"Trust me," said Rimmer. "Don't give in to them."

"But they just seem so sad," said Lister helplessly. "I hate doing this to them!"

"You've got to be firm, Listy," said Rimmer.

"Can't I just—"

"No," said Rimmer sternly.

"You didn't even—"

"No."

Sure enough, after several minutes of the uproarious tantrums, Jim and Bexley's screams became frail whimpers. They forgot about the bear and their row with each other. Slowly their eyelids began to droop and their whining died down. Within moments they were both peacefully asleep on the floor.

"Well, would you look at that," said Lister quietly, watching them sleep. "That is so much better."

"See?" said Rimmer smugly. "What did I tell you?"

"They're on the floor," said Lister. "That can't be comfortable. Should I move them?"

"You can try," said Kryten. "But I think that they'd be very sour apples if you moved them and they woke up."

"I'll take the chance," said Lister, as he bent over painfully, clutching his bandaged abdomen, and tried to lift up Bexley without disturbing his sleep.

"You really shouldn't be picking them up," Rimmer said. "They're too big now. You'll strain your stitches."

"Well, unless you're going to help me I don't have much of a choice," said Lister, who now had Bexley's sleeping body laid across his arms. "Kryten—would you mind getting Jim so that I don't have to take two trips?"

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Lister, sir."

Lister and Kryten carried Jim and Bexley to the Officer's Quarters. Lister pulled back the sheets on the bottom bunk with one hand, fluffed up the pillow, and laid Bexley down. Kryten handed Jim to Lister and he placed Jim beside Bexley. He pulled up the covers to their chins and tucked the blankets in closer to their bodies. He brushed their hair out of their faces, leaned in, and kissed them both on the forehead.

Lister climbed into the bunk and sat alongside them. His stomach growled suddenly, loud enough for Kryten to hear.

"Would you like something to eat, sir?"

"That'd be great," said Lister wearily. "Can I have a bowl of oatmeal with honey and a glass of chilled vindaloo sauce?"

"It would be my pleasure," said Kryten, turning and marching away robotically. He returned a minute later with Lister's unique choice in a morning meal.

"Thanks, Kryten," said Lister, as he tucked in to his sizable serving of oatmeal. "You've been so much help since you came here. I can't thank you enough. Especially for helping with the delivery."

"Why, thank you sir," said Kryten modestly. "But a mechanoid does not require praise or thanks for our service to humans. It makes us happy."

"But the point is that you _deserve _to be thanked," said Lister. "I honestly don't think that me or the twins would have survived the operation if it wasn't for you. The skutters accuracy with the scalpel is worse than the a news anchor trying to predict the weather. If you hadn't come around I'd be a dead man."

"Oh, well…" said Kryten bashfully. "If mechanoids could blush, sir, it'd look as if I was wearing as much makeup as a redneck's pig on their honeymoon."

Lister shook his head. "Just take the compliment."

"If you wish, sir," said Kryten, as he whisked away Lister' empty breakfast tray.

**AN: The school year's coming to an end but my teachers aren't winding down yet. Between lab reports and poetry assignments and studying for French tests, I almost completely rewrote this chapter because I wasn't happy with a lot of it. I like it much better now. The part I wrote it when Jim and Bexley were first trying to walk when they put one foot forward and stepped on top of their other foot and fell down is from a real life experience—that's how my parents said that I first tried to walk. Another thing taken from real life was a few chapters back before the twins were born when Lister was putting blocks on his stomach and the twins were kicking them off—when my mom was pregnant with my younger brother I remember that she would put toy cars on her stomach and my brother would kick them off. **

**Another note that I wanted to make is about one of Rimmer's lines when the boys were fighting over the bear. Here's a quote I went off from that I found on the official site: "The basic story of **_**Dad **_**told of Lister giving birth to his twin sons, Jim and Bexley, while Rimmer became something of a doting father figure." **

**Now there's something any fangirl could run with.**

**S'il vous plaît réexaminer!**


	20. Who What Where When Why How?

Disclaimer: Still not mine

Day 9, Part 7

Lister took Jim and Bexley down to the Recreation Room to have some fun and play some games. He showed them the keyboard and they wanted to play. They clambered up onto the piano bench with some assistance from Lister, and together they pounded on the keys, playing some mutilated tune on the clapped-out, three-million year old keyboard. Lister loved that sound that caused even Kryten to cringe and go to the next room. To Lister it sounded better than the London Phil.

The boys became bored with the piano, and they had all elected to have a game of hide and go seek. Lister explained the rules of the game to them, and off they went.

"Where are they?" said Lister, pacing around the room and scratching his head. "Where could they be?"

"Where could who be?" asked Rimmer offhandedly.

"Jim and Bexley, of course," said Lister, lifting up an empty vindaloo tray and looking beneath it, as if that might possibly be where they were hiding. "Have you seen them anywhere, Rimmer?"

"No," said Rimmer, shaking his head. "I haven't seen them anywhere. The last time I saw them they were with you."

"Well," said Lister, staring up at the ceiling. "I have no idea where they could be. Beats me."

Poorly concealed giggles drifted up from a bundle of blankets beside one of the chairs at the poker table.

"Did you hear something?" asked Rimmer, cupping his ear.

"No," Lister lied. "I didn't hear anything. You must be space crazy."

The sounds of young laughter rose again, stronger this time. "Space crazy?" they giggled in delight.

"You're sure you don't know where they are?" asked Rimmer, cupping one of his ears exaggeratedly.

"No clue," said Lister. "I told you, I've looked everywhere. The medical unit, sleeping quarters, hologram simulation suite, cargo decks, diesel decks, showers, air ducts, even_ outside _the ship. Nowhere."

"You mean you _lost _them?" Rimmer cried.

"I didn't mean to," said Lister, his shoulders shaking with fake sobs. "I mean, I didn't lose them—I-I j-just d-d-don't know w-where they are…"

"You know what they say," Holly interjected. "Something's only lost until it's found."

"Thanks a lot, Hol," sniffed Lister. "That won't help me find me sons, though."

The heap of blankets was quivering with anticipation and triumphant snickers.

"Oh, this is getting ridiculous," said the Cat. "Man, you guys are stupid! They're obviously right here!"

Cat yanked the white bed sheet off of Jim and Bexley. The two boys screamed and threw their arms over their heads when they were discovered.

"Smeg!" Bexley yelled.

"You found us!" exclaimed Jim.

Lister and Rimmer shook their heads.

"You ruined it—you spoiled their fun. Haven't you ever played this game before, Cat?" asked Lister.

"What, the giggling ghost?" said the Cat. "No, but I can tell you that it's the stupidest monkey game I've ever seen!"

"It's called hide and seek, you gimboid," said Rimmer. "I was a champion at it when I was young! I still happen to hold a record at my old boarding school of thirty-seven hours!"

"Yeah," said Cat. "And I can tell you that I'm a lot better at it than they are! Besides, why are you still playing the dumb game anyway? I won a long time ago!"

"What d'you mean, Cat?" said Lister. "They found you within thirty seconds of saying 'Ready or Not.' You were just standing right where they left you to go count."

"Exactly," said the Cat. "I rest my case. The game would have also worked a lot better if they didn't warn you when they're coming!"

"You lost, you stupid prat," said Rimmer. "The first one to be found in hide and go seek is the loser."

"Oh, really?" said the Cat, crossing his arms. "Says who? I'd like to see the official rulebook. In every game I've ever played, it's the first one to finish who wins. And I was found first, so I'm the winner!"

Lister and Rimmer looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Lister turned in Jim and Bexley's direction, clapping his hands. "Ready for another round, boys?"

The twins were slumped over on the blanket, sleeping soundly. Bexley's head was resting on Jim's shoulder and both of them were sucking their thumbs.

"Awwww," said Lister warmly. "Would you look at that? Out cold."

Lister and Kryten transferred the twins to the sleeping quarters and tucked them into the bunk.

Lister leaned back against the wall of the bunk, wondering how long they would sleep this time. He turned his head and watched Jim and Bexley sleep. They looked so peaceful. Lister was as tired as he could ever remember being, but he knew that Jim and Bexley were probably ten times more exhausted than he was. Not only did they need a lot of sleep because they were so young, their bodies also required an enormous amount of energy to keep up with the rate at which they were growing. Lister hoped that they wouldn't spend the rest of their time together sleeping.

Lister was so tired. He yawned. He felt his weary eyes began to droop. It was such a relief just to close his eyes. It wouldn't hurt to just rest his eyes for a few seconds. That was his last thought before he too drifted off to sleep.

Lister woke, startled, when he felt something tapping his arm and another something tugging at his sleeve. He blearily opened his eyes and saw Jim and Bexley's faces inches above his own. Both looked slightly older, and it was obvious to Lister that they had been trying to get his attention for some time by the urgent, impatient looks on their faces.

"I'm hungry," said Jim.

"I'm thirsty," said Bexley.

"I'll bet you boys are," said Lister, scooting forward in the bunk. "I'll show you how to get food whenever you want it."

Jim and Bexley both wrapped their arms around Lister's neck as he tried to stand up with them. He was never much one for weightlifting.

"Let's try something else," Lister choked. "You're getting too big for me to hold both of you at once like that."

Lister swung them each onto his shoulders, and they giggled in the delight of being so high off the ground. "How's that?"

"Good," the twins chorused.

Lister walked out into the corridor and stopped in front of the dispensing machine, the infusion pump wheeling along behind them. "Has Holly registered them as crew members yet so they can get their own food?" Lister asked the machine who had so recently been his enemy.

"Yes," replied the machine. "She kept it simple."

"Well, what are they?"

"You know I can't tell you that. It's classified information only to be known by James Lister and Bexley Lister."

"But not even they know it," argued Lister. "I can't always get it for them."

Rimmer suddenly appeared beside Lister. "You're one hundred percent right, Listy. Have you ever heard that old proverb—'catch me a fish and I can eat for a day, teach me to fish and I can eat for a lifetime.'"

"Holly," said Lister. "What are Jim and Bexley's codes for the machines?"

"I made it easy for them to remember," said Holly. "Now what was it? Oh right, yeah, it was their names. Yep, that's it."

"Did ya hear that, sons?" said Lister, craning his head back to speak to the twins. "All you have to do is say your names to the machine and tell it what you want. It's just that easy. D'you want to try?"

"Okay," said Jim in a small voice.

"Tell it your name," said Lister patiently.

"Jim," said Jim shyly.

"And now tell it what you want to eat."

Jim thought for a moment. "Food!"

"Yeah, food!" said Bexley.

"Lister, I'm not sure that they've learned what different foods are called," Rimmer pointed out.

"Yeah, you're probably right," said Lister. He told the machine his registration code and ordered two mild vindaloos and papadams. He thought it wise to start them off on less spicy curries and work their way up from there. He usually liked his vindaloos so hot that it would be wise to keep a fire extinguisher and a bottle of indigestion tablets nearby.

Lister slid Jim and Bexley from his shoulders and onto the floor. He handed them each a tray of vindaloo. He clasped their hands that weren't holding their meals and walked with them down the corridor, Rimmer in tow.

Lister held their trays while they clambered back into Rimmer's lower bunk that Lister had temporarily been using. Lister peeled back the lids from the containers and handed one each to the twins.

Lister pushed his button to administer more pain medication as he sat down at the table. He sighed with relief as the agonizing pain became a dull ache.

"They'd better not get any of that stuff on my sheets," Rimmer warned. "Your wardrobe is living proof that the stains from it never go away."

"They won't spill," said Lister, just as he realized that Bexley had been eating his food with the dish at an angle and some of the reddish-orange vindaloo sauce had just slopped over Rimmer's immaculate white bed sheets.

"You were saying?" Rimmer glowered.

"It's okay," said Lister. "They're only kids. Give them a break. Besides, there's plenty of blankets onboard. We can have Kryten clean this one."

"I'd be delighted, sir," said Kryten.

"But those sheets have sentimental value," said Rimmer. "I've had them since before I died! Those are the sheets I slept in on the last night of my life."

"Come on, Rimmer," said Lister. "That's just pathetic. You could say that for anything. 'No, you can't get rid of that moldy sandwich, it's the last thing I ever ate.' Or 'No, don't throw out that urinal, that's the last place I took a leak.' It's just childish. They're only sheets. They can be replaced."

"But they're _my sheets!" _Rimmer continued, undeterred. "You can't just go around wrecking other people's possessions and then saying, 'Oh, that can be replaced!' Would you borrow someone's prosthetic leg to use a golf club and then say you'll replace it when it snaps in half on the ninth hole! It's totally unacceptable behavior!"

"Rimmer, are you mad at me?" asked Bexley, his bottom lip sticking out.

"No," said Rimmer in defeat at the look on Bexley's childish face.

"Are you sure you're not mad at me?"

"No, Bexley—I am not mad at you," said Rimmer with as much patience as he could muster.

"You're really not mad at me?"

"Yes!" Rimmer snapped. "I'm mad at you, okay?"

Bexley looked perturbed for a moment, before saying, "Why're you mad at me?"

Rimmer groaned and dragged his hands down his face

Lister suddenly felt a tug on either sleeve. He looked down and saw Jim and Bexley trying to get his attention from their place in the bunks.

"Dad," said Bexley. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Me too," said Jim, dancing on the spot.

"Is it time for them to outgrow their nappies?" asked Lister hopefully, more than eager for that particular stage of their lives to pass.

"Yes, I think it is once they start to become aware of when they have to go," said Rimmer thoughtfully.

"Okay, then," said Lister, as he helped the twins get down from the bunk. Unlike their old sleeping quarters, the Officer's Quarters were considered too classy to contain a toilet in the same room as their beds. This room instead had a washroom in the back.

Lister took his son's hands and led them into the washroom. "No more going in your pants now, eh?" said Lister. The boys shook their heads. "That's good to know. Now, here's what you do."

Several moments later Lister trailed out of the washroom with Jim and Bexley on either side of him. Lister had a look of bemusement on his face.

"Kryten, there's a bit of a clean up job in there if you'd like," said Lister, shaking his head in marvel as he jerked his thumb at the room behind him. "I didn't know it was possible to hit the ceiling!"

"Weee!" said Bexley, and he and Jim giggled from behind his hands.

"Never seen anything like it!" cried Lister.

"Yes, I'm sure you haven't," said Rimmer. "Only you were probably just like them in every way."

"Eh," said Lister. "I don't really remember. There was this one time, though, when old couple next door to us got really angry when I was going in one of their award-winning rose bushes. They said it was never the same again."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me one bit," said Rimmer.

"You know what else?" said Lister, sinking into his bunk with Jim and Bexley. "Back at me step dad's house we used to have this German shepherd who would come around every now and then and do his business in our lawn."

"So?" said Rimmer, unimpressed. "That happens to everybody."

"Well," said Lister. "If that's not bad enough, every now and then he'd bring his dog with him."

Rimmer, smiled ill-humoredly. "What a charming anecdote, Lister."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" said Lister, as he bounced the twins on his knees. "Until me dad made me take a plastic bag and clean it up."

"_You _cleaned it up?" said Rimmer in disgust. "What did you do with it?"

Lister grinned. "Mailed it back to him.

Lister had ignored Rimmer's orders and Kryten's suggestions that he stay in the Medical Unit and recover, and fully moved back to the Officer's sleeping quarters. He knew that he'd probably pay for this decision later with a slower recovery, but he didn't really care right now.

Jim and Bexley were both around three now, possibly older. Lister was trying not to count the years that were going by so rapidly in a matter of hours. He felt a stab of remorse whenever he dwelled on it. Nevertheless, Lister tried to remain as optimistic as possible.

"Do you want to hear some music, kids?" asked Lister, as he pressed play on the stereo.

"What's music?" asked Jim.

"This is music," said Lister. "Rasta Billy Skank. My favorite."

"I would hardly call it music," muttered Rimmer.

"It's my favorite too!" said Bexley, bobbing his head along with the beat of the music.

"Me too!" said Jim, also bobbing his head.

"Look at them! They're like a couple of parakeets," said Rimmer. "Can't you find something more intellectually fulfilling for them to do? Something that will build up their brains and help them to speak more than three consecutive words?"

"This is intellectually fulfilling," Lister argued. "Musical appreciation. Who doesn't love 'Don't Fear the Reefer?' They like it! Look, they're dancing. It's really cute."

Sure enough, Jim and Bexley had both started to dance to the music, their little arms swinging, their hips wiggling. They grabbed each others hands and danced in a circle, singing tunelessly to the music. Lister looked on, smiling.

"Hey!" said the Cat, as he and Kryten entered the sleeping quarters. "You taught them that?"

"That is just precious," said Kryten, watching Jim and Bexley spin around the room singing loudly.

"You think that's impressive," said Lister. "Watch this. Jim—Bexley—how old are you?"

Jim and Bexley stopped dancing briefly, and each held up three fingers. "I just taught them that. I'm trying to ease them into understanding their ageing," Lister explained. "They don't seem to get it at all. I can't imagine how confusing all of this must be for them."

"They look happy to me," said the Cat. "Either that or they're having some kind of seizure."

"Sure, maybe they're happy now," said Rimmer. "But what's going to happen when they suddenly go from childhood to puberty in less than ten minutes?"

"I don't want to think about that yet," said Lister. "Just let them enjoy being kids."

Jim and Bexley spun and spun and spun, temporarily so untroubled and light hearted with their lives, simply being children. They were oblivious that there was anything in their lives that was wrong at all.

The twins, now aged four, had discovered six new magic words that they could ramble off at astonishing speeds, sometimes not even waiting for a response. These words were 'who', 'what', 'where', 'when', 'why', and 'how.'

"How come it's always black outside?" asked Jim.

"Because we're—" Lister begin, but was cut off again.

"What are all those white things out there?" asked Bexley.

"Those are—"

"Why does Kryten look different than we do?" said Jim.

"He's a—" Lister tried again.

"What's that thing on Rimmer's head?" asked Bexley.

"It means he's—"

"Why are Cat's teeth so big?" asked Jim.

"He's a—"

"What is that thing that follows you around and why do you keep pushing that button?" asked Bexley

"It's called an infusion—"

"Who's that?" asked Jim and Bexley together, pointing at one of the many Zero-G football posters that lined the walls of Lister's bunk.

"That's Jim Bexley Speed," Lister said, finally managing to get in a full sentence.

"Like us?" said Jim inquiringly. "That's mine and Bex's names!"

"Yeah," said Lister. "That's who I named you after. He's one of my heroes, the Roof Attack player on the London Jets Zero-Gee football team."

"What's Zero-G football?" asked Bexley, his head cocked to one side.

"I'll show you," said Lister. He dug around in his trunk and found a video tape of what was in his opinion the best season for the London Jets. It contained the game that he had been to back on earth, the season of seventy-four to seventy-five. Jim Bexley Speed had broken the all-time record for three-dimensional yardage in a single Zero-G football season. As an added bonus, you looked in the background on the tape, you could see Lister for one brief second in between two concessions men selling warm lager.

Lister put the tape on. "Play," he said, as he climbed into the bunk and Jim and Bexley climbed onto his lap. Lister ran a running commentary of the names off all of the players as they floated out onto the field, and bits of stats and trivia about his favorite players.

"That's Donatella," he said, as a thuggish looking player entered the field. "He's the starter. Originally from Manchester. And that's Jim Bexley Speed coming in right now."

To Lister's excitement, Jim and Bexley enjoyed watching the game as much as he did. They cheered whenever a goal was made, and whenever Jim Bexley Speed was on the screen. They didn't really understand the rules, but Lister tried his best to explain them in between shots of the game and during instant replay. They understood the basics, though. When the London Jets scored it was a good thing, when the Dublin Daredevils scored it was a bad thing.

The game went into halftime. "So we have the same name as him?" asked Bexley, as the preserved head of Mick Jagger in a glass jar was brought onto the stage and placed on a stool to sing 'Satisfaction.'

"Yeah," said Lister.

"Why?" asked Jim.

"Because I always planned that I would name my first son Jim and my second son Bexley."

"Why?" asked Bexley.

"After my favorite player, Jim Bexley Speed, of course," replied Lister simply.

"Why?"

Lister sighed, and gave them a little squeeze. "Because I just did."

"Oh," said Jim, turning his gaze back to the screen. "Okay."

Lister tore two blank pages out of the back of his diary and placed them side by side on the table in front of him. He dug around in his locker until he found two black JMC issued markers. He carried the markers back to the table and placed one marker beside each piece of paper.

Lister sat down at the table in front of the papers and beckoned Jim and Bexley toward him from their seats in his bunk. "Come here, boys. I want to teach you something."

Jim and Bexley climbed out from the bunk and climbed up onto Lister's lap. "What is it?" they asked together.

Lister uncapped one of the markers. "I'm going to show you how to write your names out."

Lister wrote out Jim's name in large, capital letters across the top of one paper and Bexley's on the other.

"This one's yours, Jim," said Lister, tapping the paper on his left. "J-I-M. And this one's yours, Bex. See? B-E-X-L-E-Y."

Lister took the cap off of the other marker and handed one to each of them. "Now I want you to try to copy what I wrote out on the paper to spell out your own names."

The twins stared blankly at the papers.

"Well, go on and try," said Lister.

"But they're not fair," said Bexley. "Mine's longer than Jim's."

"Alright, then," said Lister, crossing out Jim's name and scrawling out JAMES underneath. "Is that fair now?"

"Yeah, I guess," said Bexley slowly, critically eyeing the two papers.

Jim sniffed the tip of his marker and grimaced, smearing black on the end of his nose. "How d'you use these things?"

"You hold them in this hand because you're both right-handed," Lister explained, licking his finger and rubbing the black off the tip of Jim's nose. "You just hold the marker between your thumb and pointer finger. Here, I'll show you."

He positioned the marker in Jim's small hand and pressed the marker to the paper, guiding his hand through the letters so that JAMES was spelt out untidily below Lister's example.

"Now try it by yourself," said Lister. He in turn helped Bexley to hold the marker and held his hand over Bexley's as he helped him to spell out the letters.

"There!" said Lister, when they finished the tail on the Y. "Now you do it."

Lister watched silently as the boys each struggled to copy the text Lister had printed out for them. After another minute Jim threw down his marker in triumph.

"I did it!" he exclaimed proudly. "See, Dad?"

Lister leaned forward and examined the messy script of a child. The writing was wide and loopy and uncontrolled. The J was backwards and the curves in the S were greatly exaggerated so that it resembled silly string rather than the nineteenth letter of the alphabet. But Lister had to admit that it wasn't bad for a first attempt and he nodded his approval.

"I'm done too!" Bexley cried a few seconds later. He glanced over at his brother's paper. "And I did better than Jim!"

"Did not," said Jim in a hurt voice.

"You both did great," said Lister. Jim stuck his tongue out at Bexley.  
"Hey! None of that! I'm proud of both of you."

Bexley's style of writing wasn't all too much different from Jim's. Their writing looked as though it was done by someone who had just had their dominant hand cut off and were forced to write with their other hand and was in a great hurry to write the note pleading for help before the mad axe man came back to finish off the other hand. At least that was the analogy that one of Lister's early teachers had used to describe his own penmanship in his early years at school, and he'd never seen much of an improvement. Although Bexley hadn't got any of his letters backwards, it was still mostly illegible. But they could work on that later.

"He-ey!" screeched the Cat, gliding smoothly into the room. He stopped in front of the table where Lister was sitting with Jim and Bexley on either knee. "What're you doing?"

"I'm teaching them to write their names," Lister answered.

Cat came around to the other side of the paper and examined their writing critically. "Is that _your _writing?"

"No," said Lister. "That's Bexley's. Mine's above that."

"I don't see a difference," said the Cat. "I mean, you call _that_ handwriting? I'd be able to write better than that with the pen between my teeth!"

"Give them a break," said Lister defensively. "This is their first time trying to write."

"And the way it's going so far, hopefully it's their last," said the Cat, preening himself in his hand mirror.

"—where he died on the fifth of May, 1821 in Saint Helena, where he had been exiled nearly six years before. They say that his cause of death was stomach cancer, though my personal opinion is that it was actually arsenic poisoning or possibly even syphilis that did him in," said Rimmer, concluding his history lesson. "Now, it's time for a pop quiz to see how much you boys remembered from Uncle Arnie's lesson. First question: where was Napoleon Bonaparte exiled the first time?"

Jim and Bexley stared blankly back at Rimmer from their place in the bottom bunk. Their eyes were glazed and their mouths hung open.

"Give up?" said Rimmer. "It was Corsica, remember? The same place Napoleon was born. I'll give you an easier one this time. What was the name of the British captain who died whilst defeating Napoleon in the sea combat, the Battle of Trafalgar?"

"Rimmer, they're bored!" cried Lister, who had literally collapsed with exhaustion at the metal desk and table. He waved a fatigued arm in his son's directions. "Can't you see that they haven't listened to a word you've said? Look, they're so jaded they're drooling!"

"Of course they've listening!" snapped Rimmer. "They're just trying really hard to remember the answer. You're the one who wasn't listening. You fell asleep."

"I wasn't asleep," said Lister drearily. "I was just resting me eyes."

Rimmer stared sternly at Lister. "You shouldn't even be in here. You should still be in the medical unit's recovery bay. You look like death itself. You're not well enough to be walking around yet."

"I'm not going to lay around in the medical unit and let Kryten wait on me hand and foot," said Lister. "I want to be here, I don't want to miss any of this."

"I've warned you before," said Rimmer. "You're only prolonging your recovery."

"Yeah, well, I'll worry about that later," said Lister, yawning and allowing his head collapse wearily into his arms on the table.

"I could take over the duty of child-rearing while you sleep," Rimmer offered. "That's what you're doing, anyways."

"No smegging way," said Lister, suppressing a yawn. "And let them become like you? No thanks."

"Don't say I didn't offer, Lister. Now, where were we?" said Rimmer. "Ah yes, the name of the British leader in the Battle of Trafalgar. Bexley, do you know the answer?"

"Admiral Horatio Nelson," said Kryten, entering with a basket of freshly folded laundry.

"Thanks so much, you demented plastic blockhead. I was actually asking Bexley for the answer."

"My apologies, Mr. Arnold," said Kryten humbly.

"Give up, Rimmer! It's useless," mumbled Lister, raising his tired head a half an inch off the table. "If they're anything like me, which they are—they'll have absolutely no interest in history whatsoever. They'll just open up the text book to chapter twenty-eight and pretend to be reading while actually looking at the latest issue of Playboy."

"I disagree, Listy," said Rimmer. "I believe that if they are molded correctly from an early enough age, they could really amount so something. They could really make you proud to have been the one that gave birth to them someday."

"They don't have to prove anything to me," said Lister. "I'm already proud of them. You could at least do them the favor of teaching them something that will actually be useful! Why would they need to know about some short Emperor from the nineteenth century who tried to conquer Europe for France when he wasn't actually born in France himself?"

"They happen to find it extremely interesting, Lister!"

"Oh yeah?" said Lister cheekily. "Then how come they've fallen asleep?"

Rimmer turned to look behind him. Sure enough, Jim and Bexley were asleep one again, huddled together in the bunk.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Lister?" asked Kryten, looking at Lister in concern. "Can I get you anything? I believe it is time to change those bandages again."

"Yeah, I think you're right," said Lister, automatically itching at the sutures at the mention of them.

"Stop that," Rimmer ordered. If he wasn't a hologram he would have liked to tie Lister's hands behind his back.

"I'll be right back with the fresh bandages, sir," said Kryten as he marched away.

"Don't forget the soothing ointment!" Lister called after him. He put his head on the desk, feeling nauseous, and rested briefly until Kryten returned. Lister had changed out of the surgical gown while Kryten was gone, grateful that he was once again able to fit into his favorite London Jets shirt.

Kryten slowly unpinned and unraveled the bandages. The loose skin around the incision was still slightly swollen and red, and a shade darker than Lister's own skin color.

Rimmer grimaced. "That looks like something out of the X-Files."

"When will I look normal again?" asked Lister, feeling the extra skin on his stomach that had been stretched out so far in such a short space of time.

"You mean when will you lose that extra twenty or so pounds you've put on lose the stretch marks, and fit into your own skin again?" said Rimmer. "The basic desperate questions that have plagued all pregnant women since the dawn of time?"

"Yeah," said Lister, as Kryten administered antibacterial ointment to the incision.

"Well, you'll need a sensible diet to start with, full of vegetables and all sorts of goodies like carrots, broccoli, and rutabaga. And as soon as your internal organs move back into their designated places you'll be able to hit the gym."

"Isn't there any easier way?" asked Lister in dread.

"Sure there is," said Rimmer brightly.

"Like?" said Lister, waving a hand for Rimmer to continue. "Let's hear it."

"I remember this health club back on Io," said Rimmer reminiscently. "They promised drastic weight loss with just one session at their clinic. Their advertisement was 'Lose The Weight Without Ever Lifting a Finger Again.' It was all over the news. Lots of people showed up, all keen to shed the pounds without doing the work. The clients were all weighed, then sat through a two hour seminar, and then were made to sign some legal documents. Then the physical trainer would come in and hack off one of their limbs and charge them by the pound. Sure, it was a lose-lose situation for the clients, but the health clinic couldn't be held responsible. You see, they had done exactly what their advertisement promised."

"And that was supposed to make me feel better, how?" asked Lister.

"It wasn't meant to," said Rimmer. "I was just giving you another option incase you get desperate enough. Otherwise, I hope you like crunches, miladdio!"

Lister groaned.

**AN: I must give credit where credit is due: I was watching the Series VIII Smeg Ups and Craig Charles told the joke about the German Shepherd to the audience in between takes. I don't know how many people have heard it, but I thought it was hilarious and would fit in perfectly in the scene I used it in. He's a brilliantly funny man, Craig. Love his radio show. And I'm excited about his autobiography coming out next March. The 'Are you mad at me?' part is the shortened version of something my brother said when he was little. Also, the Zero-G player, Don Donatella, is from one of the posters I've seen in Lister's bunk. I'd like to credit Futurama for the idea to have Mick Jagger's preserved head in a glass jar singing at the games half-time show. **

**I love Jim and Bexley—they are so much fun to write, little Listers! I especially like their bit parts in IWCD and BTL—they're nice little treats from Grant Naylor. If you've read, reviews are muchly, muchly appreciated.**

**kellyofsmeg**


	21. Showing Off

**Day 9, Part 8**

Jim and Bexley had grown out of all the clothes that the Cat had in the storage box. Everyone was surprised when the Cat offered to make new suits, but Lister pointed out that it was useless, no suit would last them more than two hours. He instead dressed them in some of his own clothes, which entirely swamped their small bodies. Even though the boys were built solid like Lister, their bone structures were still too small to hold up any of Lister's trousers, so he let them run around in his boxers and London Jets t-shirts. Jim and Bexley were proud of their namesake—they had memorized all of his stats and wore the merchandised shirts as proudly as if they had belonged to Jim Bexley Speed himself. They even knew that he wore an aquamarine tie with a lemon diagonal stripe when he was interviewed by Mark Matheson after Megabowl 102. They now called Jim Bexley Speed their hero as well.

"After you of course, dad," Bexley had said sincerely, and Lister had to turn away from him to dab at the corners of his eyes with his shirt front.

After eating curries, listening to Rasta Billy Skank, and watching Zero-G football, Jim and Bexley's favorite pastimes were chasing each other down the ship's corridors playing a version of tag. They also had a game that they simply called "looking," in which they would do just that. They liked to explore the ship and look at all the different rooms. They particularly liked exploring in the many sleeping quarters of the ship and rummaging through the personal possessions of the deceased crewmembers of Red Dwarf.

Lister did a double-take when the twins had raced past him down the corridor outside their sleeping quarters. He and Rimmer had exchanged deeply perturbed glances and Lister craned his head around the corner that his sons had just raced around.

Lister stepped back into the threshold of their quarters and stood beside Rimmer, leaning heavily against the wall.

"I don't think the kids are alright," said Lister, jabbing his thumb behind him. "Do mine eyes deceive me, or did I just see me firstborn son dash past me wearing red pumps with a bra over his head?"

"That you did, Listy," said Rimmer disconcertedly. "But what about Bexley? Where on Io did he get those swim fins and that ridiculous sun hat?"

"I think the better question is how he learned to make balloon animals out of condoms," said Lister, biting his lip. "I swear they didn't learn that from me. D'you think we should be worried?"

"Worried?" said Rimmer dumbly. " For what?"

"Don't give me that," said Lister hotly, his hands on his hips. "You know damn well what I'm talking about—the dress-up and all."

"Don't tell me that you never played dress-up when you were younger, Lister," said Rimmer. "Everybody does."

Lister shook his head. "No—I didn't."

"Oh, right," said Rimmer doubtfully. "Don't tell me you never dug through your mother's drawers one rainy day when you were looking for some lighthearted entertainment?"

"No," said Lister. "I didn't have a mum, remember?"

"Your grandmother, then," said Rimmer in a flourish.

"Nah," said Lister, disgusted. "What sort of perverted bloke do you take me for? Why the smeg would I want to try on some old lady's knickers? I promise you, Rimmer, I never, _never _played dress-up. At least not until I got really wasted that night with Petersen. Or that time when me and my mates back in Liverpool snuck into a pub we were banned at. But never when I was a kid. At least not that I remember."

"Oh," said Rimmer, his face dropping. "N-neither did I. Silly, girlish thing to do. I personally would rather put on tights and pretend I was Robin Hood of Nottingham."

Lister smirked knowingly at Rimmer, who shifted uncomfortably.

"I mean," Rimmer stammered. "There may have been the odd occasion when my brothers would force me to try on one of my mother's evening gowns, and playing the Queen of Spain in their Three Musketeers game usually involved them adding a little rouge to my cheekbones. But I would never intentionally have done it on my own. It's not like I enjoyed it or anything—I fought them tooth and nail until I was blue in the face whenever they got near me with a tube of my mother's ruby red lipstick."

"Yeah, sure," leered Lister. "Keep telling yourself that, Rimsy-Mimsy."

Rimmer shook his head furiously. "We should go after them. Wearing those things too long can turn a young lad strange."

"You're probably right," said Lister. "Would you be living proof to that testament?"

Rimmer's face went red and Lister smirked in satisfaction. They left the sleeping quarters to confiscate the questionable items in the boy's possessions.

Lister found that Jim and Bexley liked to press buttons. He didn't know how they did it, but they were pushing buttons in the drive room, and suddenly Holly was speaking in Swedish. It was a full hour before the combined efforts of Lister, Kryten, and the Cat figured out how to override whatever order Jim or Bexley had given. Holly had been trying to help them figure out what to do, but they hadn't understood a word she had said.

Meanwhile, while Lister, Kryten and the Cat repaired Holly's voice circuits, Rimmer was in charge of supervising Jim and Bexley.

Jim had been stunned the first time he had been laughing, running down a corridor pursued by Bexley, when he suddenly closed his eyes as he saw that he was about to collide with Rimmer. Jim ran blindly, anticipating the crash. Much to his surprise, he passed right through Rimmer.

Jim opened his eyes and turned around, staring at Rimmer in amazement. He turned on his heel and ran through Rimmer again, laughing joyously.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Jim gleefully. "Why can I run through you?"

"Because," Rimmer explained bitterly. "I'm dead. I'm a hologram, composed entirely of light."

"Oh," said Jim, nodding and pretending to understand. "Hey Bexley! Look at this!"

Bexley jogged up to them, panting. "What is it?"

Jim demonstrated his new found discovery and ran through Rimmer again.

"Wow, let me try!" cried Bexley, and he too ran through the hologram.

"Stop that!" Rimmer barked. "Have you no respect for the dead?"

"You can't be dead," said Bexley simply. "You're still here."

The twins continued to play their new game, giggling in delight.

"I'll give you one fair warning," said Rimmer sternly. "Stop running through my person or you will have to endure the unpleasantness of my terrible wrath."

"We're not scared of you," said Jim.

"Yeah," said Bexley. "What can you do to us? You're dead!"

Rimmer became quite mad, and turned as if to chase off the boys. They screamed and ran playfully down the hallway.

"Go on," Rimmer growled, and pursued them down the corridor, the boys shrieking all the way. "You're both grounded!"

"But we're having fun!" Jim and Bexley exclaimed together.

"Well I'm not," said Rimmer bitterly.

"That's because you're no fun," said Jim, as he once again turned and ran through Rimmer's helpless image.

"Lister, can't you control your posterity?" asked Rimmer, swiftly walking down the corridor in pursuit of the twins.

"What's going on here, boys?" asked Lister, as Jim and Bexley ran into him. They squealed again and hid behind Lister, their arms wrapped around the back of his legs.

"They've discovered that I'm a hologram," said Rimmer. "And they think it's quite an amusing game to run through my person as they please."

"Well, it is," Lister defended. "But it's a novelty. They'll get bored with it after a while."

"They're just like you," said Rimmer. "No respect for their superiors, even when they're dead."

"They're just kids," Lister defended. "It's just a stage. They'll grow out of it. They're only having a bit of fun."

"No respect…" Rimmer murmured. "Listy—could I have a word with you in private?"

"Sure," said Lister. He looked over his shoulder at the twins. "Go play, boys. And try to stay out of trouble."

Jim and Bexley turned and scurried off to the sleeping quarters behind them. The doors to the sleeping quarters had been open for several minutes, and had decided to spontaneously close on their own. Jim got through the door, but Bexley barely missed. The result was that he collided headfirst with the closing door.

Lister and Rimmer heard the noise and turned just in time to see Bexley stumble backwards and land heavily on the floor, clutching his mouth with both hands.

Lister came to Bexley's aid as fast as he able to do with painful sutures tugging, and knelt down at Bexley's side. "Bexley! That didn't look so good. Are you all right?"

Bexley sat in stunned silence for several moments, before his face grew red and his eyes started to stream. His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he whined painfully as blood tricked down from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh," said Lister concernedly when he saw the blood seeping from Bexley's mouth. "Let me see…"

Bexley shook his head and sobbed harder. Lister prized Bexley's hands from his mouth, and was startled to see how rapidly the blood was streaming from Bexley's closed mouth, and his palms were stained red. Lister whipped his head around to look at Rimmer for help.

"Which one is this?" asked Rimmer.

"What?" scoffed Lister. "You mean to say you can't tell them apart?"

"No," said Rimmer. "They're completely identical. How can anyone possibly tell them apart?"

"I can," said Lister simply.

"Yes," said Rimmer tauntingly. "But mothers can always tell, can't they? So, is it Jim or Bexley that just made acquaintances with the door?"

"It's Bexley," said Lister.

"Bexley, open your mouth, please," said Rimmer, standing over Bexley. Jim had figured out that his twin hadn't followed him, and had come out to see what was holding him up.

"What's wrong with Bexley?" asked Jim, staring wide-eyed at his brother.

Bexley reluctantly opened his mouth, and Lister and Rimmer leaned in for a closer look. One of Bexley's bottom teeth had been knocked out, and a gaping, bleeding red hole had been left in its place.

"His tooth!" Jim cried in horror. "It's gone!"

"But where'd it go?" asked Lister, looking around the floor.

"Here!" said Jim, holding up a small, pearly white tooth and handing it to Lister.

"They just got these in," said Lister, shaking his head while looking at the small tooth in his palm.

"Well, they are around the age children start to lose their baby teeth and get their adult teeth in," Rimmer said. "I remember the awkward stage perfectly. I was known as the Bonehead Jack-O-Lantern from the time I was six to nine years old."

"It hurts!" Bexley wailed, flinging his arms around Lister's neck.

"I know, I know," said Lister patting Bexley's back and cradling him back and forth as Bexley sobbed into Lister's shoulder.

"Don't smother him!" Rimmer scolded. "They have to start learning to deal with their problems on their own."

"Rimmer, don't tell me how to raise my kids," Lister replied vehemently.

"You're going to spoil them," said Rimmer. "They're not babies anymore."

"But they still are babies," Lister said, then added regretfully, "Or at least they should be."

"Daddy! Daddy! Look what I can do!" exclaimed Jim, as he hopped around the sleeping quarters on one foot.

"That's great, Jim," beamed Lister. Rimmer too managed to smile slightly.

"That's nothing, Jim," said Bexley. "Look what I can do!"

Bexley took a step back, planted both hands on the floor, and reared into a handstand. He lost balance and toppled over.

"Easy, easy!" said Lister, helping Bexley to his feet. "Don't hurt yourselves."

"Well I can do this!" said Jim, attempting to do a lopsided cartwheel and crashing into the dirty laundry bin.

"Me, me! Look at me!" cried Bexley, and he did a somersault.

"That's fantastic, boys," said Lister with his nose plugged as he scooped the putrid socks back into the basket.

The twins had been competing for his attention nonstop for the past hour. Now that Bexley had lost a tooth, the two of them seemed to be taking turns, pulling out one tooth after another. Rimmer pointed out that Jim most likely would have lost a tooth first if it hadn't been for Bexley's encounter with the door.

Lister had been very concerned that they'd have no teeth left, and was startled to discover that their permanent teeth were coming in just as quickly as they were loosing them.

Whenever one of the twins performed a trick that Lister considered to be very impressive, the other twin would always have to find another trick to outdo his brother. Lister was thrilled with all of the new things that they were learning, but at the same time he wished that they would stop showing each other up for his praise and affection.

"Let's do something else now, lads," said Lister, lying down wearily in his bunk.

"What's this?" asked Jim, pointing to a spot on the wall.

Lister's gaze followed Jim's pointing finger and lead to his guitar that was propped up against the wall.

"That's me guitar," said Lister, holding his bandaged side and reaching to grab the neck of the guitar with his other hand. "Do you want to try it out?"

"Please, no," Rimmer pleaded, clasping his hands together. Jim nodded and climbed into the bunk. Lister handed Jim the guitar and showed him how to hold it.

"Oh smeg," said Rimmer, covering his ears before Jim even started to play. Rimmer decided that since Jim was a Lister, he'd naturally play the guitar about as well as El Kabong.

"What do I do?" asked Jim, running his small hands along the neck of the guitar.

"You strum it, like this," explained Lister, taking Jim's right hand and guiding it to the correct placement over the strings. He raised Jim's hand up and then strummed in a smooth downward stroke. "See?"

Jim grinned as the sound of the guitar's few mismatched and un-tuned strings harmonized in the air much like a car pile up on the freeway. Jim strummed the guitar again and again, more quickly and with more ferocity.

"Sounds good, son," said Lister proudly. "Let me show you the other half of playing. You can also put you fingers on the strings up here to make the notes sound different."

Lister situated Jim's fingers so that they formed a triangle high up on the neck in the second and third frets. "There you go. That's the D chord. It's one of the only ones I ever bothered to learn."

Jim strummed the guitar, but the D chord was not what came out of it. It was a sound worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, a sound that man would never have thought a guitar was capable of making. But Jim, just like Lister, seemed to thing that the gods had smiled down on him and made him a rock n'roll diva, so he continued to play with confidence.

"My turn!" exclaimed Bexley, snatching the guitar from Jim and holding it upside down and backwards. He bit his lip and strummed violently.

Rimmer groaned and pressed his fingers so far into his ear canals he could have sworn his fingers made contact with his brain.

"Way to go Hendrix-style!" said Lister, clapping. "It sounds great, Bex!"

"Are you kidding?" said Rimmer incredulously, wrenching his fingers out of his ears and checking to be sure that there wasn't any pinkish gray substance on his fingertips. "Your whole family is completely tone-deaf."

Bexley propped the guitar back up against the wall. He and Jim exchanged a silent glance, nodded, and started out of the sleeping quarters.

"It really creeps me out when they do that," said Rimmer edgily.

"Where are you going, boys?" called Lister from the bunk.

"We're just going to pop down to the dispensing machine. Jim wants a drink," said Bexley. "D'you want anything?"

Lister shook his head slowly. "No thanks, I'm good."

"What about you?" asked Jim politely to Rimmer. "D'you want anything?"

"No, James, I do not," said Rimmer, pacing and trying his best to sound pleasant. "I am a hologram, therefore I am dead, incase you forgot so quickly. Therefore, I can no longer enjoy the pleasure of consuming any sort of culinary delicacy."

"Oh," said Jim in a small voice, and he and Jim skipped off down the corridor, each with the same foot forward, their arms swinging in sync, each singing the same song by Rasta Billy Skank.

"A simple 'no thanks,' would have done it, Rimmer," said Lister once the twins were gone. "You should've been nicer to Jim. He didn't know that you can't eat. He was just trying to be friendly."

"I was merely stating a fact!" said Rimmer defensively. "I don't appreciate being constantly reminded that I'm not truly among the living and that my whole existence is an illusion generated by light by a senile computer, that I'm just a shadow of the person I was when I was alive. "

"Thank goodness for that," said Lister with a sigh of relief. "If this is just a shadow of what you're really like, I don't think I could handle the full Rimmer."

"I mean, do I really resemble myself at all? I could've sworn I had a better physique when I was alive, muscles don't just disappear like that. And that time I made a second me—he was so much more motivated. He said I'd gone soft."

"Well, maybe you have. Sorry to change the subject," said Lister, not sounding remotely sorry at all. "Have you seen the Cat or Kryten around?"

"Not for awhile," said Rimmer. "I think the Cat's trying to stay clear of the twins right now until he's had all of his suits laminated. And the last time I saw Kryten he was polishing every glass surface in the ship. But then again, it is the middle of the night. They're most likely sleeping, which is what I would be doing if the noise level in here was even somewhat bearable."

"I wish I could sleep, too," said Lister, yawning. "But I'll only sleep when they do, and the boys say they're not tired."

"So," said Rimmer, looking down at his hands. "When are you going to tell them?"

"Tell them what?"

"About everything," said Rimmer. "The circumstances behind their births, the reason they're ageing so fast, if they even notice—and the fact that they'll be dead in a fortnight if they don't go back to their universe. They deserve to know, and soon."

"I'll tell them eventually," said Lister offhandedly. "If it crops up naturally in conversation. I don't even know if they're old enough to understand it all. To be completely honest, I think it's a miracle they can even speak with how quickly they've had to learn words. I actually think they're doing really well coping with it all, better than I am, anyways. But there's still a lot of things they don't know. They don't even know about women, so there's the first place I'd start, or the rest of it wouldn't make sense. I dunno. Maybe they're still too young. I'll give it a few more hours."

"But you need to _plan _how you're going to tell them," said Rimmer. "You won't know when and if it will even come up in conversation and frankly you need to be prepared on how to handle this impending delicate situation. I mean, you can't very well say, 'Yes, it's true—you are but products of my perverse self-gratification gone hideously wrong.'"

Jim and Bexley skidded into the room at that moment, obviously excited about something. Their small arms were loaded with silver cartridges. The twins each had something white sticking out from between their lips.

"Look what we found!" exclaimed Jim proudly, showing Lister and Rimmer the boxes in his arms, silver packages glinting in the light.

"My cigarettes!" Lister exclaimed in incredulity. "I was looking all over for these! Where'd you boys find 'em?"

"In a closet," said Bexley, the cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.

Lister snatched the cigarettes from Jim and Bexley's mouths. "You're too young for these. Which closet did you say?"

"A closet where I quite rightly knew you'd never think to look in," said Rimmer smugly. "The cleaning supply closet."

"Eh. I'll remember that," said Lister. "Well, give 'em here, boys, these aren't meant for kids."

Jim and Bexley obediently handed Lister the many packs of cigarettes. Lister caressed one of the boxes lovingly against his face.

"You're not going to smoke them now, are you?" asked Rimmer sternly.

"'Course I'm not," said Lister. "I think I can wait a couple of days to start up again." He piled the cigarette cartridges haphazardly in his storage locker.

"We found a bunch of these, too," said Bexley, pulling a can of lager out from under his shirt.

"Me lager!" Lister cried, accepting the can from Bexley, "These were in that closet, too?"

"Yep," said Jim proudly. "A whole smegging bunch!"

Lister was overjoyed to tears of happiness at the prospect of having his lager back. He gratefully knelt down, overwhelmed, and pulled Jim and Bexley into a tight hug, kissing them both as he thanked them again and again.

"You shouldn't drink that yet either," Rimmer advised. "I don't think it will work well with the pain medication you're taking. I've heard horror stories of people who've mixed narcotics with depressants like alcohol."

"Pain medication?" asked Bexley curiously as Lister released him from his embrace. "Are you hurt?"

Lister looked down at the floor, and Rimmer smiled gleefully. "So the truth comes out. Now would be that appropriate time for that talk we talked about possibly talking about."

"What happened?" asked Jim with concern. "Is that why you always touch your tummy like it hurts real bad? And why you have that medicine thing with you?"

"Yeah," said Lister slowly, not sure how to handle the situation he was now in that he hoped would not come up for at least another day. He didn't even know if Jim and Bexley would even understand, being only about six years old. Yes, it had been around a full day since their birth. He only had two days left with them, and Lister decided that he would have to tell them sooner or later.

Lister lifted up the hem of his t-shirt and showed them the faintly bloodied bandages, and they gave a gasp of surprise. He needed to let the stitches get some air anyway if they were ever going to heal. He thought how unfair it was that Jim and Bexley grow up so quickly, when his incision gets to heal in time with his universe.

"What happened to you?" gasped Jim.

Rimmer pretended to cough behind his hand. "Hhhum, hhhum, you did."

"What did we do?" asked Bexley, looking at Rimmer tentatively. "We didn't do anything!"

Bexley looked uncertainly at Jim. "Did we?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't remember."

"Come here, boys," said Lister, taking their heads and leading them over to the bunk. Lister sat down and the twins sat on either side of him. Lister put an arm around each of their shoulders and drew them closer to him.

"This all might be a little hard for you to understand," said Lister slowly. "So if I say anything you don't understand, just tell me, okay?"

"Okay," said Jim and Bexley together. Lister took a moment to gather his thoughts, and Jim and Bexley patiently waited for him to begin speaking.

"I guess I should start back at the beginning," said Lister. "I never knew who my parents were. I was adopted—found under a pool table in a pub back in Liverpool. That's where I was born and raised. Back on Earth."

Lister closed his eyes as Jim and Bexley fired off a million questions.

"What's 'Liverpool'?"

"What's 'parents'?"

"What's 'adopted'?"

"What's 'born'?"

"What's a 'pool table'?"

"What's Earth?" asked Bexley curiously.

"I've got a lot of work to do. Come on," said Lister, slowly standing and pulling Jim and Bexley to their feet as well. He tucked a photo album under the crook of his arm. "Follow me. There's something I want to show you."

ARNOLD J. RIMMER—MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

27 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on, Holly. Where have you been today, anyways? Oh well, I guess getting used to your new sex must involve a lot of alone time. The birth of Lister's twin boys occurred around 3 in the morning, and the operation was a complete success. He named them Jim and Bexley after that ridiculous footballer who thinks it's great fun to make a fool of himself trying to play major league sports in zero gravity. We discovered that the boy's time will be short here, as they are suffering from highly accelerated growth rates. They entertained themselves today at my expense, much like their dear mum. Lister's just taken them to go explain everything to them. I wonder what he wants to tell them that he can't say in front of me…oh, if he tells them about Gazpacho Soup Day or the time I accidentally called Todhunter mummy, I'll kill him. Tape off.


	22. The Truth Comes Out Partially

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is not mine.

**Day 10, Part 1**

"Wow," said Jim and Bexley softly.

"Yeah, it's amazing, isn't it?" said Lister, leaning against the metal railing and looking around.

Lister had taken Jim and Bexley up to the Observation Deck, a great Plexiglas dome atop the Red Dwarf. It was an amazing, grand sight to behold, and could fill you with wonder and make you feel depressingly insignificant at the same time. The black, vastness of space spread eternally in all directions, dotted with glistening stars, planets, moons, red giants, white dwarfs, galaxies, supernovas, comets, super giants—all a cosmic show for those confined in the Observation Deck to safely observe space. As long as a passing asteroid didn't shatter the Plexiglas, that is.

"Where are we?" gasped Jim, his eyes wide with wonder. The innumerable stars were reflected in his eyes.

"What are all those things?" said Bexley, pointing up at a particularly bright star that Red Dwarf had just passed.

"This," said Lister, gesturing widely with his arms. "Is what we call 'space.' This huge, endless field of nothingness is what the Russians and the Americans were fighting to get to first in the Space Race. And all of those twinkly little things are called stars."

"There's a lot of them," said Jim. He counted up to ten stars, then stopped, realizing he didn't know how to count after that. "How many stars are there?"

Lister thought for a moment, and realized that he didn't know the answer. He remembered something his friend, Duncan, had told him when they were kids.

"I don't know," said Lister slowly, trying to remember the exact phrasing of what his friend had said all those years ago. "But I once heard that there are more stars in space than there are grains of sand on all the beaches on the world put together."

"Wow," said Bexley wonderingly. "Wait—what's sand? What's a beach?"

"What's a world?" asked Jim curiously.

Lister rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes and thinking. How do you explain everything to someone who knows practically nothing? "Do you know what rocks are?"

Jim and Bexley looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Rocks are these really hard things you find back at earth," said Lister. "They're everywhere, they come in all sizes. and they're really fun to throw at people. Plus they break windows quite nicely. Anyways, sand is just rocks, broken up into really small pieces and it's really annoying when you get either one in your shoes. You know what water is, right?"

Jim and Bexley nodded, thinking it might be easier to just agree. "A beach is a whole bunch of water, surrounded by sand."

"Oh," said Jim and Bexley.

"Do you understand?" asked Lister.

"I think so," said Jim.

"Yeah," said Bexley uncertainly.

"So the world, or Earth, is where I came from," explained Lister, opening up his photo album and showing them a picture of his home that he had torn out of a book on space. "See it's all round, blue and green. It's mostly made up of water, the blue part. The green parts are land, that's where I lived and all of the other humans."

"What're humans?" asked Bexley.

"We're humans," said Lister. "The three of us are the last humans alive."

"Why?" asked Jim, sounding concerned. "How come we're the last humans?"

"Because," said Lister sadly. "All the rest have died."

"How?" asked Bexley, startled by the news that his species was nearly extinct.

Lister thought for a moment. "I don't really know how, to tell you the truth. It could've been anything—the polar ice caps melting because of greenhouse gases is most likely what happened. I knew that we couldn't trust environmentalist groups like Friends of the Earth or The Wildlife Trusts—they did us in the end with all of their greenhouses."

"How many humans were there?" asked Bexley. "More than ten?"

"Way more than that. There's billions," said Lister. He could tell by the looks on his son's faces that they didn't have a clue what 'billions' meant. "There were lots and lots of them. So many that you could never count them all."

"Not even on your fingers _and _your toes?" asked Bexley in wonder.

"That's right," said Lister with a small smile, ruffling Bexley's hair. "Not even on your fingers and your toes."

"But what about Rimmer, Cat, Holly, and Kryten?" inquired Jim. "Aren't they humans too?"

"No," said Lister, shaking his head. "Rimmer was a human, but he's dead now, a hologram. That's why he's got that H plastered to his forehead. Holly's just a computer, and she's the only thing that's keeping Rimmer here, unfortunately. The Cat is well, a cat. Cats are these small, furry, pointy-eared pets that people kept back on Earth. I had a pet cat once. Frankenstein was her name. Here's a picture of me and her. Kryten isn't human, he's an android. Androids are made by humans to do the work that humans are too lazy to do—like scrubbing toilets or ironing."

"What's the Earth like?" asked Bexley, looking thoughtfully at the picture of the blue-green planet that Lister had torn from one of Rimmer's books.

"It's fantastic," said Lister passionately. "There's loads of this soft green stuff that grows out of the Earth called grass, and there's trees. There's a picture of one, there. There's four seasons, too. In winter, it's really cold and this white stuff called snow comes down from these fluffy white things called clouds. In spring, the trees get all their leaves back and it starts to get warm again and all of these colorful plants called flowers come out. In summer, it gets really hot and everybody goes swimming in the water. Then autumn starts, it gets cold again and the trees lose all of their leaves again and it turns into winter.

"Every year without fail, except the last few years I was on Earth, global warming had gotten so bad it was like summer all year round. We had to fly in a giant toupee to cover up the hole in the o-zone layer. That's the thing that keeps us from being burnt up by the sun. There's these things called animals—there's more than you could ever imagine. They were still discovering new animals when I left Earth. See this here? That's an animal—we call them dogs. They're like cats, only stupider and they spend most of their time either dragging their bums on the carpet or begging all dopey-eyed for table scraps. Then there's the shops where you can buy clothes, food, new strings for your guitar—and there's cars, they're these hunks of metal that people fill up with explosive liquids and like to drive real fast and run into each other with. Then there's the people—some are fantastic—blokes you can go out drinking with and have fun, others are complete smeg heads. Some of those smeg heads make us all cram into a room when we're young and teach us how to read and write and other crap. It's called school. I failed at it, barely graduated. Everyone thought I was in Honor Roll though, because I snuck into the back when they were taking the photograph for the annual. Then there's women, and sex, and…."

"Why did you leave Earth if you liked it so much?" asked Bexley, confused, halting Lister's monologue.

"You know, Bexley, I think about that every day," said Lister heavily. "I didn't mean to leave Earth, it was an accident. On my twenty-fifth birthday, me and a couple of friends celebrated by going on a monopoly board pub-crawl through London. We hitched a ride in a frozen meat truck to get from Liverpool to London. We got there at lunch time in the Old Kent Road. A drink at each of the squares was the plan. We started with some hot toddies to revive us from the ride. In Whitechapel we had pina coladas, at King's Cross, double vodkas. In Euston Road, pints of Guinness. The Angel Islington, mescals. Pentonville Road, bitter laced with rum and black currant. By the time we got to Oxford Street, there was only four of us left, and only two of us still had the power of speech.

"The last thing I remember is telling the others I was going to buy a Monopoly Board—that's a game we played back on Earth-- because none of us could remember what the next square was. I went outside, clutching two-thirds of a bottle of warm sake. My mate Ian had been sitting on it for hours, you see.

"I have a very vague memory of an advert on the back of a cab seat; something about cheap space travel on Virgin's new batch of demi-light-speed zippers. Something about Saturn being in the heart of the solar system, and businesses were uprooting all the time. Something about it being nearer than you think, at half the speed of light. Something about two hours and ten minutes along with free sick bags and a packet of roasted peanuts. And then I remembered this thick black, gunky fog.

"I woke up slumped across a table in a McDonalds burger bar on Mimas, that's one of the planet Saturn's moons and McDonalds is a smeg awful burger restaurant where the food tastes just like the wrapper. I was wearing lady's pink crimplene hat and a yellow pair of fishing waders. I had no money and a passport in the name of Emily Berkenstein, plus I had a worrying looking rash."

The three of them sat in silence for several moments as Jim and Bexley attempted to take in everything Lister had told them.

Finally, Jim said, "But didn't you try to go back to Earth?"

"Oh, I did, son, believe me," said Lister regretfully. "I tried to save up money to get home, but flights back to Earth were so expensive. I would steal hoppers and give people rides to earn money. But I'd always go of and blow my money at the pub or I would be robbed by Bliss freaks. That's where I met Rimmer. I gave him a fare in my hopper. He was pretending to be an Officer. I was living in luggage locker 4179 in Mimas Central Station. The problem was that I needed a drink a night to keep me going, and that's where all of my savings to back to Earth went. It was a vicious cycle."

"But didn't anybody back on Earth miss you?" asked Bexley.

"I honestly don't know if anybody even realized I was gone," said Lister, admitting a truth that had just dawned on him. "There was only me drinking buddies. I didn't have any family. Like I said, I was found, six weeks old, under a pool table in Liverpool. I was adopted by Frank Wilmot and his wife. Me step dad was great," he pointed his picture of his dad's leg visible from behind his dog, Hannah.

"He died when I was six. I was left with my step mom, but she left, so I was raised by my grandma. That's her there," he pointed out a picture of a tough looking old lady with her tattooed arms folded, wearing sunglasses and a hat, a pipe sticking out from between her lips. "She's your great-grandma. She was a great old lady. I wish you could have met her—she would've loved you boys."

"What happened to her?" asked Bexley in a small voice.

"She was hit by a truck when I was thirteen, and I've been on me own ever since. The only other person who would have noticed I was gone was Lise Yates, but we broke up way before this."

Jim and Bexley frowned at the picture Lister was showing them of Lise, their brows furrowed in concentration.

A thought suddenly dawned on Lister. "That's right, you know nothing about women. You've only been around blokes. Women are like, the opposite of men. They're more sensitive than men, more serious usually, more mature. They're more the nurturing type. They can actually _remember _anniversaries and stuff like that. They're into talking about relationships and other smeg like that. The main difference between men and women is below the belt, but we'll leave that story for when you two are older."

"So then what did you do?" asked Jim curiously.

"Yeah," said Bexley. "How'd you get on Red Dwarf?"

"I joined the Space Corp," said Lister. "The Jupiter Mining Corporation. I thought it would be a free trip back to Earth, so I signed up. They told me that I could enter as a Third Technician. So I waited for an opening. One day two of them show up and tell me there's an opening on the JMC mining ship Red Dwarf, so I took it. I was the lowest ranking crew member out of 1,169 people. I was in Z Shift, and Rimmer was my supervisor. Our main job was to make sure that the vending machines didn't run out of crispy bars."

"Then what happened to everybody else?" asked Jim. "Where are they?"

Lister took a deep breath. "It all started when I fell in love with the Navigation Officer, Kristine Kochanski. This is her, here," Lister showed them his only picture of Kochanski, her sparkling eyes and the pinball smile. "We went out for three weeks. Then she dumped me. I found out that I was just her rebound, and she got back with that poser chef, Tim. I was really heartbroken. Being with Kochanski had almost made the four years it would take to get to Earth seem bearable. I went on planet leave to Triton, to take some time to get over her. When I was on Triton, I adopted this pregnant black cat, Frankenstein. I couldn't take it all anymore. I wanted to be put into stasis, that's a machine that freezes you in time."

"Why did you want to go into stasis?" questioned Bexley.

"Because I couldn't stand the pain of seeing Kochanski with Tim. And by the time I got home I would be nearly thirty, an old man! So I decided to go into stasis to make the time go by faster. I looked it up—the least serious crime to be put into stasis was to bring an unquarantined life form on board. So I got Frankenstein. That would give me eighteen months in stasis, and that was a start."

"What does 'unquarantined' mean?" asked Jim.

"It's something that hasn't been watched to see if it's safe or not," Lister exclaimed. "So when they found Frankenstein, I would be put into stasis for a year and a half. It was taking them too long to find out about her, so I took this picture of me and Frankenstein and sent it to be developed in the ship's lab. I had locked Frankenstein in the air ducts so that they couldn't find her."

"Then what happened?" chorused the twins.

"Captain Hollister called me to his office," said Lister. "And he asked me about the cat. I pretended that I didn't know anything about it. I got eighteen months in stasis with my pay suspended."

"But what happened to Frankenstein?" asked Jim in a small voice. "Was she okay?"

"Yeah, she was fine," said Lister. "But the rest of the crew weren't. Not long after I was put into stasis, the entire crew was wiped out by a radiation leak."

"Radiation?" asked Bexley.

"It's energy, basically," said Lister. "But it killed the crew. Only Frankenstein and her kittens survived. Holly woke me up from stasis three million years later. The crew was nothing but white powder. Tasted alright, though. Holly brought Rimmer back as a hologram to help keep me sane. I still don't understand that bit. The Cat is actually like the great-great-great-great-great-great grandson of Frankenstein or something. And we found Kryten on a crashed ship _The Nova 5 _a while ago. He left to start his own garden and crashed into an asteroid. We got him back and fixed him up a few days ago. I don't think he'll ever be the same, though—with that Canadian accent and all."

Lister suddenly sighed with frustration and leaned further over the railing. "Every step I've taken since I hopped that truck in Liverpool has taken me further and further from home. And now I don't know if I'll ever get back. This isn't how I wanted me life to be. I had a plan. I was going to buy a farm on Fiji, and have two sheep, a cow, horses, and a cat. I was going to bring Krissie with me. She was going to wear white dresses and ride the horses. It's too late to bring Krissie. She's been dead for more than three million years. I wish more than anything that I could still go back to Earth and have my farm on Fiji, and I'd bring you two with me."

"Well, why can't we go?" asked Jim eagerly. "Let's go right now!"

"It's not that simple," said Lister, not able to look at their eager young faces.

"Why not?" said Bexley, disappointment evident in his voice.

"Yeah, why not?" echoed Jim.

"Because…" began Lister. What was he supposed to say? Because that's what we've been trying to do since I've got out of stasis and we haven't had any luck yet? Or because we haven't got enough time, if we keep going at this rate you'll both be dead in just under a fortnight? He settled with, "Because we're three million years away from Earth, and we don't even know which way to go. We have less idea of where we're going than my old band."

"Oh," said Jim and Bexley together, sounding particularly let down.

"Ah, come 'ere," said Lister, putting an arm around each of their shoulders and holding them on either side of him. "It's alright, lads. There's still a chance for us to fix all this and get back home," he said, trying to remain optimistic in their hopeless situation.

Lister and his sons were silent for several moments, gazing at the infinite cosmos that surrounded them. Then Bexley asked the question that Lister had been avoiding.

"So where did me and Jim come from?"

Lister sighed, contemplative on how to best answer Bexley's question without terribly confusing his sons. Everything that he told them here would be opposite in the universe where they were conceived, and where they were planned to be returned to in two days. Lister wasn't keen to break that news to them, not yet. They were still too young. In his universe, the circumstances surrounding their births was considered terribly unconventional, physically impossible even. But in the universe of their origin, it was considered as normal as having tea and crumpets every afternoon at four o'clock.

Lister drew in his lips and licked them nervously before speaking. "You boys understand about their being two basic types of humans, right? Men and women?"

"Yeah," said Jim and Bexley.

"We're guys, you see. Well, when a man and a woman get together, sometimes the woman will get pregnant," Lister attempted to explain.

"What's that mean?" asked Bexley, twisting the end of one of his locks around his finger.

"It's when the woman has a new baby growing inside her," explained Lister, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Then she has the baby and there's one more human, and the baby grows up and finds another person the opposite gender and it starts all over again with the two of them as parents, the mum and dad this time—it's been that way since, well, ever."

Lister clapped his hands together, satisfied with his answer to his sons endless, difficult questions. "That's the way it goes."

Jim and Bexley, however, were not satisfied. The rapid growth of their bodies was too much for their brains to handle. They did not have the knowledge that other children their age should possess. There just wasn't enough time for their brains to catch up with their bodies. This resulted in gaping chasms of their understanding of the world around them. Jim and Bexley always had a constant stream of questions running through their mind, naturally eager to better understand the thousands of concepts that they were required to learn to compensate for lost time. At the tender age of one day old, when they should have been swaddled in blankets, sleeping soundly in Lister's arms without a care in the world. Technically they shouldn't even have been born yet. But this cruel universe instead expected them to deal with being six years old, fast approaching seven, and to understand where they came from. They had to find their place in this universe before being thrust into another.

"Wait," said Jim slowly, biting his lower lip as he concentrated on selecting one of the millions of questions fighting to pass from between his lips. "You said there's two parents—"

"Yeah," piped up Bexley. "A mum and dad."

"So you're our dad, right," said Bexley slowly.

"Not exactly," said Lister slowly.

"Is Rimmer dad, then?"

"NO!" Lister looked disgusted, shaking his head furiously as if to clear the unbearable question from his memory. "Smegging hell, no…"

"Then who's our dad?" asked Jim.

"Oh boy, here it goes," muttered Lister to himself. Lister decided that it would be best to start at the beginning of the story. "You know Holly, right? That computer that has slightly more than a short circuit? Well, believe it or not, Holly used to be a man. Or something like that, being a computer. Don't ask, we can't much make sense of it ourselves. She's computer senile, see? Well, Holly told us that she invented this thing called the Holly Hop Drive that could get us back to Earth. It was just this orange box with start and stop on it. Anyways, it took us to this parallel universe."

"What's that?"

Lister tried to recall how Holly had explained it just over a week ago. "I know this is probably too much for you to take in. There's four dimensions, I think Holly said—the fifth dimension are coexisting realities. They share the same space but don't know it. We boarded a Red Dwarf that looked exactly the same as ours. There were differences there, too. Everything was opposite. We met our opposites. Rimmer, Holly, and my opposites were all female versions of ourselves—mine was Deb, Rimmer's was Arlene, and Holly was a bloke then and met his female opposite Hilly. They got it on—he was so heartbroken when he left that he performed a sex change operation to make him look just like Hilly. But I don't really want to go there with you boys. The Cat was in for a surprise, though. His opposite was a dog. Maybe that picture of the my dad's dog, Hannah? This Dog was like that, only evolved over three million years like Cat so he was on two legs and everything. He smelt awful, had more fleas than a shag rug in a pawn shop.

"We went to the disco to have some fun, a couple of drinks. We were waiting for Hilly and Holly to repair the Hop Drive, but they were too busy snogging. It's really weird meeting yourself. Rimmer got a taste of his own medicine. You see, in this universe we're in now, us men have always had the upper hand. In that universe, the females did. So Rimmer got to see what it feels like to be hit on by hypnosis. The cowardly smegger ran off and hid from himself to get away from him."

Lister took a deep breath. "Am I going too fast? Are you boys still with me?"

Jim and Bexley nodded hesitantly, "Yeah…"

"I hope you are," said Lister heavily. "Because this is where it really starts to get confusing. So the next day I wake up in bed with my female opposite, Deb. I didn't remember much, neither did Deb—we had huge headaches. The Rimmers came in. It turns out that _everything_ really is opposite in their universe. In our universe, it would have been Deb who got pregnant, because she's the female. But in their universe, it's the man who gets pregnant. We go back to this ship and I took a pregnancy test and it came out positive. A week later you two were born."

Jim and Bexley looked deeply perplexed indeed. Lister wasn't sure what to do or say now. He instead waited for them to say something, to see if they could comprehend this concept that was far in advance for his young sons.

"So—that's where we came from?" said Bexley at last. "How?"

"Good question. Here—look," said Lister, lifting up his shirt to expose the bandages covering his incision again. "I don't know and I don't want to know how you two would have been born if I had stuck around in that universe. But when it was time, Kryten and the skutters did a caesarean section. They cut open me stomach and delivered you boys that way, then they stitched me back up."

"Can we see it?" asked Jim curiously.

"I don't think you boys really want to," said Lister, bewildered. "It's really disgusting."

"I want to see it!" Bexley insisted.

"Me too!" said Jim eagerly.

"All right," said Lister in defeat, slowly unraveling the bandages. He knew he would've said the same thing when he was a kid. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Lister unraveled the last layer of protective bandages so that his long, thin, bruised and swollen incision was revealed.

"Eww," said Jim and Bexley, recoiling slightly.

"Yeah, I warned you it was gross," said Lister, looking at the sutured slit in his belly. "That's where you boys came out."

"Did it hurt?" asked Bexley slightly guiltily.

"It hurt worse than anything I've ever experienced in my life. Then I got medicine to numb me, and it felt really weird when Kryten pulled you out. Now that the numbness is gone, I keep taking this every now and then to make the pain go away," said Lister, indicating his portable infusion pump.

"Where's Deb?" asked Jim. "Wasn't she here?"

"No," said Lister, shaking his head as he rewound the bandages. "She and the others stayed in their universe, and we went back to ours."

"D'you think we can ever go back to meet them?" inquired Bexley.

Lister stopped what he was doing, stunned at Bexley's innocent, casual question that had just hit home so suddenly and painfully that it startled Lister. Did they know somehow? No, they couldn't know the plan yet. He felt the corners of his eyes burning and quickly hid his face in his sleeve so Jim and Bexley couldn't see.

"Someday, sons, you will," Lister promised, feeling heartsick.

**AN: Sorry to anyone who's read IWCD, because a lot of Lister's background would be old news to you. I tried to throw in some jokes to make it more bearable. But I wanted to have Lister cover **_**everything. **_


	23. It's A Wonderful Life

**Day 10, Part 2**

"This, lads," said Lister excitedly, sliding a vid from its case. "Is a must-see."

Lister loaded the video and settled in the bunk between Jim and Bexley. Kryten came in with a tray of assorted foods that were far from healthy that Lister had asked for.

"Here you are, Mr. Listers, just as you requested," said Kryten formally, transferring the tray carefully to Lister. " Potato slices fried in oil and sprinkled with salty seasonings—"

"Chips," said Lister.

"Corn kernels that have been popped and swimming in butter—"

"Popcorn," said Lister.

"High fructose corn syrup in carbonated water with artificial sugar-based sweetener?"

"Soda," Lister corrected, looking at Kryten in amusement. "Why are you so proper about everything, Kryte?"

"I do believe it is due to my programming, Mr. Lister," said Kryten. "And finally—three chocolate-malt nougat bars topped with a layer of caramel surrounded with milk chocolate."

"Mars Bars," said Lister, taking one candy bar and ripping open the packaging.

"Will that be enough for the three sirs?" asked Kryten.

"It's great, Kryte," said Lister. "This was really great of you. Thanks, man."

"If I can be of any further assistance," said Kryten, "If you need your pillows fluffed up or your tray refilled, don't hesitate to call. My greatest joy is serving humans."

"Yeah," said Lister. "You've told me. There's something on my to-do list. One thing at a time, though. I'll fix that little programming flaw when I have the time, man."

"But how do you plan on doing that, sir?" asked Kryten. "Everything that you taught me before was lost in my accident."

"Through a series of rigorous lessons in rebellion, lying, and insults," said Lister. "I'll get you back to where you were and beyond. You won't even know yourself when I'm though with you."

Kryten shuffled out of the sleeping quarters, looking overly optimistic. Lister said, "Play," as Jim and Bexley reached over either side of him and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

"You're going to love this," said Lister eagerly as his all-time favorite movie, _It's A Wonderful Life, _began to roll on the monitor. "It's a classic. It won four awards, you know. Including a Golden Globe for best director, Frank Capra."

Rimmer and the Cat strode in towards the beginning of the film. Jimmy Stewart, who played George Bailey, was asking the townsfolk not to withdraw their money from the Bailey Building And Loan Company on the sleeping quarter's vid screen. This was Lister's favorite scene. The Wall Street panic scene. George Bailey is trying to calm the hysterical mob clamoring to withdraw all their money after the Wall Street crash. But the money isn't there—the money's invested in people's houses. Then Jimmy Stewart offers them his honeymoon money—he offers to divide out the two thousand dollars he was going to spend on his _honeymoon—_to keep them going until the bank opened again on Monday. But the fat guy in the hat steps up to the counter and still demands all his money—two hundred and forty-two dollars—and Stewart has to pay it, and he's begging people just to take what they need. And then a woman comes up to the counter and says she can manage on twenty dollars. Then up steps old Mrs. Davis and asks for only seventeen dollars and fifty cents, which was the point where Lister always started to cry unashamedly.

"Absolutely pathetic," clucked Rimmer, taking a seat at the table, the Cat seated across from him. "If I was one of them, I would take the money that was mine, forget whether it means Bailey's company would go under and Mr. Potter would take over Bedford Falls. I would claim what's mine."

"Haven't you got any sort of soul, man?" said Lister passionately. "George is trying to save them all using his own money—his _honeymoon _money, for smeg's sake. George Bailey is the only man standing in the way of Mr. Potter turning Bedford Falls into Pottersville. Besides, you're so stingy, with the way you save up money, there'd be nothing left in the bank but the Susan B. Anthony and Sacagawea dollars. You never spent any of your pay! You hoarded it like the fat kid at a birthday party who loads his pockets full of sweets from the piñata! You've got a wad of green thicker than Donald Trump and Mr. Scrooge put together, and you're still cheaper than a complimentary airline meal."

"It's not my problem that I'm so good with money," said Rimmer smugly. "There really should be more people like me."

"If there were more people like you," said the Cat, "There'd have to be a lot more suicide hotlines!"

"Hey, would you guys stop talking now? We've got some first-timers watching the film," said Lister, nodding towards Jim and Bexley.

Kryten marched into the room again. "I've finished all of my other duties, sir," said Kryten, as he took Lister's empty tray. "What would you like me to do now?"

Lister thought for a moment. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Kryten repeated. "There's always something I could do—is there anything anybody wants? I could always give the floor tiles in the showers another scrub."

"I could always come up with a list of chores for you to do," said Rimmer brightly. "Just as long as we don't have a repeat of last time. My shoe trees could use some good buffing and I can think of some irradiated haggis not yet accounted for."

Lister forced back his fur-lined leather deerstalker with the heels of his palms in exasperation. "Just ignore him, Kryten—just chill out, okay? Loosen up. Relax. Just hang, will you? Chill the smeg out."

"Why?" asked Kryten, baffled.

"Because I said so," Lister responded simply.

Kryten's face seemed to brighten. "Is that an order?" he asked hopefully.

"Why?"

"Well," said Kryten. "If that's an _order_, then that's different."

"It is an order," Lister smiled. "Chill out. Pull up a bunk and watch the film with us."

"Why, thank you, Mr. David," said Kryten. Lister was sitting in the center of the bottom bunk. Jim and Bexley were on either side of him, staring at the screen unblinkingly. They were laying on their sides with their knees tucked into their chests, their heads resting on Lister's lap.

Kryten squeezed into the bunk on Lister's right next to Bexley. "What film is this?"

"Pause, Hol. My favorite one," said Lister. "_It's A Wonderful Life. _It's about this guy, George Bailey, who has everything, a wife, kids, good job, lives in this fantastic town, Bedford Falls. Then he runs into trouble with his business and wants to kill himself by jumping off a bridge, right? And then this angel, Clarence, shows George what it would be like if he was never born."

"Lister's only seen it fifty times in the past year," muttered Rimmer.

"Really?" said the Cat. "I counted fifty-one!"

"And what would his life be like if he was never born?" asked Kryten curiously.

"You'll just have to watch and see, won't ya?" said Lister, turning his attention back to the screen. "No more talking now, okay, guys? You'll ruin it. Play."

…

The film came to a close, and Lister ordered the console to switch off. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He was always guaranteed to cry on cue as Zuru says, "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings."

Jim and Bexley had thoroughly enjoyed the movie, although it was nearly impossible for them to understand the entire film, because of their young age and how little they knew about the culture of Earth. They did, however, enjoy the overall feeling of the movie just as much as Lister.

Sitting for an hour and a half had made Jim and Bexley restless, and they were ready for a few hours of playtime. Lister was dead tired, having greatly overexerted himself over the past few days. Every muscle in his body was begging for a chance to recuperate and recover. He felt that he couldn't ignore their pleas any longer, and he certainly couldn't keep up with the activities of his vivacious sons without at least a little rest. He just needed some time to rest. No more than one hour—he wasn't willing to miss more than the three months of his son's lives that would take place in that hour.

"Come on," Jim and Bexley pleaded. "It's time to play!"

"You boys go on ahead," said Lister, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I'll come and join you soon."

"Promise?" asked Bexley, eyeing Lister sternly.

Lister smiled in spite of himself. "I promise."

Jim and Bexley turned and skipped out of the sleeping quarters together. Lister lay gratefully back on his bunk. "Can you guys keep an eye on them for me?" asked Lister. "I just need to sleep—give me one hour."

"Of course we will, Mr. Lister," said Kryten dutifully. "I would be delighted. Besides, it's high time you got some sleep. You'll never recover at this rate."

"Did you see which way they headed?" asked Lister, burying his face into his pillow.

Rimmer peered down the corridor. "It looks like they headed for the Drive Room. We'd better go follow them."

"Perhaps I could teach them how to iron and fold sheets," said Kryten.

"Nah, do something fun with them," said Lister.

"Fun?" said Kryten.

"You know," said Lister. "Play a game with them, teach them a song, show them magic tricks. You can even do that tap dancing act of yours that you used to do on the _Nova 5_. Just show them a good time—have some fun."

"Ohhh," said Kryten, realization dawning on his face. "Fun. Ah, yes. The employment of time in a profitless and non-practical way."

Lister considered this definition for a moment. "Yeah, that's it. Go do just that."

"I think we can handle that, Mr. Lister, sir," said Kryten. "How hard can it be to supervise two children for one hour?"

"You might be surprised," said Rimmer. "I couldn't even watch them for two minutes."

"They're unsupervised right now," the Cat pointed out. "And they're also in a room filled with lots of big, important buttons that are really fun to push!"

Just as these words left the Cat's mouth, he noticed something very strange. His feet were no longer making contact with the floor, but were rising up above his head as his whole body floated up into the air. Cat looked around at Lister, who had also risen off the floor. Lister had wrapped his arms around the side of his bunk as his legs rose up behind him, stretching towards the ceiling. Kryten too had left the floor, and was floating face-up halfway between the floor and the ceiling.

Rimmer remained firmly on the ground, or as firmly as he could, being that his feet never actually touched the floor. Being a hologram, he couldn't actually touch anything. He actually hovered just above solid surfaces, such a small amount that you had to strain your eyes to even notice. At this moment, as he gawked up at his crewmembers floating helplessly in the air, he was glad for once that he was a hologram.

"What the smeg is going on?" Lister yelled, watching his toothbrush as it flipped over and over again inches from his face.

"I think I know what's going on," said Kryten, unsuccessfully fighting to get his feet back to their floor. "I do believe that we are currently in zero-gravity!"

"No way," said Rimmer sarcastically. "I couldn't tell that on my own. I had to be told by an anatomically challenged droid."

"Zero gravity?" said Lister excitedly, taking one hand off his bedpost to reach under his Hilton Hotel blanket. "Where's me football? The boys'll love this!"

"The boys are most likely the ones who did this," said Rimmer.

"Hey, you're right," said the Cat, involuntarily doing a back flip as he struggled to remain upright. "I told you that it was full of big buttons that are fun to push! You just have to learn to resist the urge. And I'm speaking from experience here!"

"We've got to get over to them and set things right," said Lister, letting go of the bed post and struggling to move forward. He somersaulted over and kicked off from the side of his bunk, propelling him several feet forwards. He was unable to move any further after this, and was now hopelessly stranded in the middle of the room with the Cat and Kryten.

"How?" said the Cat. "We're stuck like this! I can't move from this spot!"

"Rimmer," said Lister. "We can't go anywhere. You've got to go to the Drive Room and tell them to hit that button again so we can get gravity back."

"Righto," said Rimmer, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the room.

"This is actually kinda fun," said Lister, who was now floating on his back at ease, his hands clasped behind his head, ready to drift off to sleep. "I could get used to this—"

At that moment the force of gravity returned in all of its glory and unceremoniously caused everyone except Rimmer to crash back onto the floor. Cat got to his feet and pulled a lint roller out of his pocket and began brushing his suit off from any traces of dirt his suit might have collected when he returned to the floor. Kryten helped Lister to his feet.

"I never realized how important gravity was," said Lister, rubbing the back of his head where his skull had hit the edge of the table on his return to the floor. "Jim! Bexley! Are you okay?"

"We think so," said Jim and Bexley, as they stumbled back into the sleeping quarters, looked disheveled.

"We got to the ceiling!" exclaimed Jim proudly. "I pushed the button again, but Bexley fell the whole way down!"

"That's right," said Bexley happily, looked unperturbed at the fact that he had fallen from that great a height.

"Are you hurt?" asked Lister, looking his sons up and down for any obvious injuries.

"Hurt?" scoffed Rimmer. "With heads as thick as theirs?"

"No, we're okay," they said together, before grinning wickedly at each other. "Let's do that again!"

"Maybe some other time," said Lister tiredly. "Right now I need to get some kip. Are you still up to babysitting, Krytes?"

"Of course, Mr. Lister," said Kryten.

"Thanks, guys," said Lister, closing his eyes. "Just make sure they stay out of trouble, d'you think you can manage that? Holly, can you make sure I wake up in exactly one hour?"

"Sure, Dave," Holly responded.

"I just need a little slee---" Lister said as the others exited the sleeping quarters. Lister fell asleep and was snoring loudly before he even finished his sentence.

…

Lister began to regain consciousness. Something was shaking him. His head lolled back and forth, as floppy as a rag doll. His shoulder kept shifting forcefully, and something was hissing. There was a blurred image above him. It took Lister a full minute for his brain to register who he was, where he was, and what was happening. He pried his hooded eyes open and dumbly recognized that the Cat had been trying to rouse him from a deep sleep.

"Buddy, wake up!" said the Cat urgently. "It's an emergency!"

"What? What is it?" asked Lister, his brow furrowed in worry. "What happened? Are the boys okay?"

"I'll tell you what happened," shrieked the Cat. He pointed to his pink suit. "Your little mini-me munchkins got some sort of that Indian stuff you like so much that smells like dead bugs all over me! Look! They've ruined my suit! You're getting the bill for this one, bud!"

"Listen, I'm sure they didn't mean to do it," said Lister, sitting up groggily and stretching. He looked the Cat's suit up and down for vindaloo stains and saw nothing. "Where did they slop on your suit? I don't see anything!"

"Are you blind? It's right here!" exclaimed the Cat, pointing to a miniscule red blotch the size of a pin head on the inside of his cufflink.

Lister rolled his eyes. "Where are they?"

"I think they're still in the Hologram Simulation Suite on Floor 592 ."

"The Hologram Simulation Suite?" Lister repeated. "What're they doing there?"

"They're having fun," said the Cat. "Just like you told them to! I was having fun, too! Until they did this to my suit, of course!"

"Let's go," said Lister, getting gingerly to his feet as he held his side. "How long did I sleep, Hol?"

"Fifty-nine minutes exactly," said Holly.

"Fifty-nine?" Lister repeated, glaring at the Cat. "You couldn't have let me sleep for one more minute? Was it really that important to wake me up to tell me you got a bit of curry on your suit?"

"Hey, there is nothing more important than my suits, buddy!" said Cat, poking a finger at Lister's chest.

Lister and the Cat headed to the Hologram Simulation Suite. The Cat covered his ears as an unearthly sound floated out from the suite.

"What's that noise?" the Cat screeched.

"I think one of them must be playing the guitar," said Lister, stopping to listen. "Sounds good, doesn't it?"

The Cat stared at Lister, his nose wrinkling. "When's the last time you cleaned out your ears, bud? You'd have to have a pretty big wax build-up to think for even one minute that it sounds good."

At that moment Kryten marched up to them. "Oh, there you are, sir! Thank goodness that Mr. Cat was able to wake you. Mr. Rimmer said it's like trying to wake Rip Van Wrinkle!"

"What's going on?" asked Lister. "Where's Rimmer?"

"I'm here," came Rimmer's disembodied voice.

"Where?" asked Lister, looking wildly around for the source of Rimmer's voice.

"The parts of me that are still remaining are here floating not two feet from you to your right," said Rimmer.

Lister turned. "Where?"

"Your other right, you gimboid," said Rimmer.

Lister turned to his right and jumped back in alarm. Rimmer's form was nothing but a pair of floating eyeballs.

"Rimmer, what's happened to you?" Lister cried. "That's really creepy. Why're you malfunctioning again?"

"Your wonderful sons spilt chicken vindaloo all over the console in the Hologram Simulation Suite," said Rimmer angrily. "Next thing you know I'm like this! Couldn't this have waited until Halloween next month?"

"I told you we were having fun!" the Cat grinned.

"Can't you do something to fix him, Holly?" asked Lister.

"I'm working on it," said Holly. "It's on my list of things to do—right after making up my own language in a mixture of Swahili and binary code."

"I've been trying to clean between the buttons in the panels," said Kryten, holding up his most powerful bottle of cleaning solution. "But you know how tough it is to clean out curry sauce."

Lister strode into the Hologram Simulation Suite and Kryten, Cat, and Rimmer's eyeballs followed. Lister wanted to hear Jim and Bexley's side of the story now.

Bexley was sitting on the edge of the control panel with Lister's guitar on his lap, his legs dangling down over the side. He was strumming loudly and tunelessly, and Jim was singing just as loudly and tunelessly.

Lister sat down in the chair in front of the console. "What're you singing, Jim?"

"I'm singing a song!" said Jim happily. "Listen! Me and Bex came up with our own song."

Jim turned to Bexley, who had momentarily stopped strumming, and gave him the thumbs up. "Take it from the top, Bex!"

"Okay, Jim," said Bexley, and he imitated something he had heard before in one of the songs Lister had played for them. "A one, and a two, and a—"

Bexley resumed his furious strumming and the guitar groaned like some dying animal. Jim coughed to clear his throat before belting, "A song, a song! A song, a song, a song!"

"Do you like it?" Bexley asked hopefully as he stopped strumming and Jim sang his last note.

"I love it," said Lister sincerely. "It sounds really great, boys. Where'd you learn it?"

"Well, it goes like this," said Jim thoughtfully, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back, looking more than pleased with himself. "Me and Bex wanted to play music, but we didn't really know any songs—"

"So we made up A Song!" Bexley finished proudly.

"Now we're just like Rasta Billy Skank!" said Jim proudly.

"I wouldn't quit your day job if I were you," said the Cat.

"Umm, excuse me," came Rimmer's voice. "But what about me? I would like the rest of my body returned if it's not too much trouble for anyone."

"Oh, right," said Lister. "I'd almost forgotten about you."

Rimmer's murky brown-green eyes rolled in agitation. "Of course. It's as easy to forget about the deceased as it is to forget about and burn the Christmas goose. I want to see a little discipline, Listy."

"I don't blame you boys or anything," said Lister. "I too think it's highly, highly amusing. What I do want to know, however, is why you did it."

"He was 'noying us!" exclaimed Bexley.

"Really?" said Lister, not at all surprised. "What was he doing this time? He didn't try to show you his collection of twentieth-century telegraph poles, did he?"

"He was trying to teach us to do this," said Jim. He and Bexley both stuck out their right arms, clumsily circling their hands in wide, unmeasured circles. They both brought their hands up, slapping their foreheads exaggeratedly before snapping their arms back down to their sides. "Yessir!"

Lister turned to Rimmer's eyeballs. "Why'd you think it was important to teach them that?"

"As you can see, they obviously still need a lot of work," said Rimmer. "But I thought it was necessary that they learn how to address their superior ranking officers."

Lister stared at Rimmer incredulously. "Rimmer, they're children! They don't have ranks!"

"They will if I have my way in shaping them," said Rimmer. "Molding them into my image. I've told you before. I want to help them to actually amount to something. But they can only achieve this with the proper education, like my father gave me—"

"Oh, and a lot of good he did you," said Lister. "From what you've told me he was a total nutter!"

"Don't interrupt me," Rimmer snapped. "As I was saying, they need a proper upbringing. They'll learn everything from Genesis through Revelations to Astronavigation."

"Yeah, good luck with that," laughed Lister. "You don't want to learn any of that, do you boys?"

Jim and Bexley shook their heads furiously. "We want to have fun!"

"I think the first action to take is to punish them for what they did to me," said Rimmer. You're in trouble now, miladdios!"

Jim and Bexley looked at each other fearfully. They hurried to stand on either side of Lister and hid their faces against his leather jacket. Lister wrapped a comforting arm around Jim and Bexley on his sides.

"Punish them?" exclaimed the Cat. "I think we should reward them for services to humanity!"

"It was an accident!" said Jim, mumbling into Lister's coat.

"An accident?" scoffed Rimmer. "I saw perfectly well what happened. Bexley, you pointed to the panel and asked, 'Is this important?' and I said, 'Why, yes it is. That's what keeps me here.' Then Jim asked, 'So if it broke you would go away?' and I said, 'Well, I suppose so.' Then they said 'Good.' And then the two of you preceded to deliberately pour liberal amounts of your lunches onto the panel having eaten all of the poultry morsels, causing my body to disappear bit by bit."

"You boys wasted vindaloo sauce?" said Lister, who considered this more of a crime than what they had done to Rimmer.

"It was for a good cause," said the Cat.

"It didn't work," said Bexley in a small voice. "His eyes were still here."

"It scared us," said Jim. "No matter where we went, he was still looking at us!"

Lister picked up an empty Styrofoam container from the top of the console. "Pot noodle?" he said, looking down Jim to Bexley. "You boys didn't actually eat all this smeg, did you?"

"No," said Jim, sticking out his tongue. "But we tried it."

"It tastes bad," said Bexley, making a disgusted face. "That's why we poured the rest on top of the thing that makes Rimmer!"

"They tried eating pot noodle, Rimmer," said Lister, stressing the point. "Isn't that punishment enough?"

"I don't think much of your parenting style, Lister," said Rimmer stiffly. "You can't just go around letting them do what they feel without any consequences. Your style is much too laid back, unstructured, so—so—you!"

"Who's their parent again?" said Lister, looking around the room. "That's right—I am. And it's up to me how I raise them. Isn't it, boys?"

"Yeah!" the twins exclaimed.

"See?" said Lister. "Even they think so. And I don't believe in punishments."

"We don't know any better!" said Jim.

"We're only kids!" said Bexley innocently.

"That's right," said Lister. "You're very messy kids, too. You've got vindaloo all over yourselves. I can't even tell which of my shirts you're wearing. Let's go change them."

"But what about me?" asked Rimmer. The others noticed for the first time that he had now regained his feet, mouth, ears, and jaw.

"I think I've almost got it, sir," said Kryten, who had been scrubbing the console clean during their whole conversation while the skutters clumsily and rather regretfully helped to restore Rimmer. "I just have to clean up this last bit and you should be good as new!"

Sure enough, the rest of Rimmer's facial features were now coming back into existence the more Kryten cleaned off the panel, and the rest of his body soon followed until his entire person was fully restored and the skutters scooted off to the cinema.

"I feel really warm," said Bexley, as Lister lead him and Jim to their sleeping quarters.

"Me too," said Jim, his voice hoarse. "And my throat hurts."

Concerned, Lister stopped walking and held the back of his hand to Bexley's forehead. "You're right," Lister said. "You're burning up!"

He felt Jim's forehead. "So are you! Is it too warm in here or something?"

Lister checked the thermostat once they were outside his sleeping quarters. It was the same temperature it always was.

"Maybe you boys have just overheated from all of the running around and mischief you've been up to," said Lister, as he sorted through his luggage locker for clean clothes.

He brought out two of his smaller London Jets t-shirts that he had purchased in his late teens. Jim and Bexley were struggling with getting dressed on their own. It was complicated for them to find the appropriate holes for their arms and head, and they became so hopelessly tangled in their clothes that Lister took pity on them and went to help. He was aware that they would never learn to properly dress themselves at this rate.

Jim and Bexley held up their arms and Lister lifted his curry-stained t-shirts over their heads. Lister was turning to grab the clean shirts from his bunk when something caught his eye.

"What's that?" asked Lister, pointing to a red spot on Bexley's chest that he was currently scratching. Lister held Bexley's hand and lead it away from the mark so he could have a closer look. "It looks like a blister… and there's another one, and another!"

"You've got them too, Jim!" said Lister. He tried to count the spots on either one of them but they appeared to be multiplying before his very eyes, spreading from their chest to their faces and their arms. "Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…"

Lister was becoming increasingly worried by now, and Jim and Bexley were furiously scratching at the spots covering their bodies.

"Kryten!" Lister called frantically. "Kryten!"

Kryten came to Lister's call in next to time, with Rimmer and the Cat in tow.

"Something's wrong with Jim and Bexley," said Lister unnecessarily. "They've got more spots than a teenager who works in a fast food joint."

"I don't like them," whined Jim.

"Make them go away, dad!" Bexley pleaded.

"What can we do?" asked Lister frantically. "What's wrong with them?"

"If my diagnosis is correct, I do believe that they have the varicella zoster virus, sir," said Kryten. "They're displaying the classic signs, anyways."

"That vari-what virus?" said Lister. "Is it serious?"

"It shouldn't be too serious as long as they get the proper treatment to avoid infection," said Kryten. "The prognosis for young children who get the chicken pox is very good."

"Chicken pox?" exclaimed Cat, eyeing the twins critically. "They don't look like chickens to me!"

"Chicken pox, you gimp," said Rimmer impatiently. "It's a virus."

"Do you mean like a computer virus?" asked the Cat. "Is that what gizmo-head got when he decided to suddenly become a woman?"

"No," said Holly, appearing on the screen. "That was from a mixture of lovesickness and computer senility, I'm afraid. Chicken pox is a common childhood ailment distinguished by itchy red blister-like things that will eventually drain and scab over."

"Does it usually spread this fast?" asked Lister.

"No, not usually," said Holly. "I estimate that it has something to do with their you-know-what. Their bodies are forced to cope with and beat the virus in a much shorter time than most children usually take."  
"Are you positive that it's not small pox?" said Rimmer. "It's much more deadly, but it's always a possibility. You have to be careful, there is always the off-chance that it could kill you."

"Stop it!" said Lister fiercely, as Jim and Bexley now looked frightful. "Can't you see you're scaring them, Rimmer?"

"But how can they get chicken pox three million years in deep space?" asked Rimmer. "If there was any traces of the virus onboard, wouldn't it have become extinct by now, or mutated into something else like that time when Lister got mutated pneumonia?"

"You would think so, Mr. Rimmer," said Kryten. However, I believe that I know how this happened in the first place. After Jim and Bexley were born, I gave them every inoculation against common ailments that they were eligible for at their young ages. When they were four hours old, I administered them other vaccines against childhood ailments that it was not recommended to give them when they were younger. This included a vaccine against the chicken pox."

"Then how come they're still getting the virus if they got a shot to prevent it?" asked Lister.

"Every inoculation against an illness contains some traces of the original disease itself," Kryten explained. "There is always the possibility that the medicine can fail and you end up getting the disease anyways. Not even the most modern medicine is reliable one-hundred percent of the time. And our most modern medicine is still three million years old."

"So what do we do now?" asked Lister in concern. "What can we do to help them?"

"We must let the virus run its course," said Kryten. "In the meantime, it is essential that the rest of us are treated before we catch it. It is much more dangerous for an adult to contract the illness than a child."

"Me first," said Rimmer eagerly.

"Umm, sir," said Kryten kindly. "It would serve no purpose and prove impossible to give you any of the preventive treatment as you are already dead."

"Oh, right," Rimmer glowered.

"And I can't catch it again," said Lister. I got it when I was seven. I missed a bunch of school. They sent me back before I was entirely better. I got me whole class sick. I was the only one in me class for a week. I didn't mind, though—the teacher was a bit of a babe. I didn't mind pounding erasers after school with her. I would purposely leave tacks on her chair and shooting spitballs just to get detentions with her."

"Well, then," said Rimmer pleasantly. "Lovely story, Listy. That just leaves Cat to be treated. I hope he likes needles!"

"And if I don't?" said the Cat stubbornly.

"Then your complexion will look just like theirs," said Rimmer, nodding towards the twins. "Your skin will be covered with tiny, itchy red blisters."

"I'm not positive if Mr. Cat can contract a human virus," said Kryten. "The domestic house cat was never troubled by it, at least. We should however give it to him for good measure."

"That's a good plan," said the Cat. "No way am I gonna become a pizza-face. That would be an even bigger tragedy than the Titanic."

"Come on, lads," said Lister, guiding Jim and Bexley towards the medical unit, itching all the way.

"Don't scratch," said Lister softly, vaguely recalling the days when he himself has the chicken pox. "You don't want scars, do you?"

Jim and Bexley shook their heads, but didn't seem to be able to stop scratching.

"Hypocrite," Rimmer muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Once in the medical unit, Kryten insisted on giving Jim and Bexley warm oatmeal baths to help soothe the itchiness. The boys had fun splashing around in the bathtub, making beards out of soap and playing lifeguard with the rubber duck. By the time the boys got out of the tub Lister was nearly as wet as they were from the amount of splashing they had done. Lister dried them off with the least-flimsy of the ship-issued towels while Kryten prepared two beds for them. Lister found two smaller bathrobes in the locker room and gave one each to Jim and Bexley.

Kryten had found some calamine lotion to soothe the sores. This was a great relief to Jim and Bexley. Kryten now suggested that the best thing for them to do was rest. He assured Lister that their illness would pass in no time because of their 'conditions.' This was their codeword as not to upset Jim and Bexley with the troubles of their ageing that they still remained oblivious to.

Lister tucked Jim and Bexley into their beds in the medical unit and Kryten immediately came by to fussily tuck the sheets in closer to their bodies. He brought them each a drink with a curly straw which the boys found very amusing. The boys were each given medicine that made them quite drowsy and they were both more than ready for a long nap.

Lister was about to head off to go get some sleep himself when he heard his sons call to him from the doorway.

"Dad?"

"Yes?" said Lister, turning to face them.

"Please stay with us," said Jim and Bexley.

Lister smiled to himself and strode back over to their side and pulled up a chair.

Jim and Bexley both yawned widely, their eyes closing, content now that Lister was there. He sat by their bedside, stroking their hands as they drifted off to sleep.

"'Night, dad," said Jim, already half-asleep.

"'Night, dad," Bexley echoed.

"Goodnight, sons," said Lister softly.

"D'you think they'll be alright, Kryte?" whispered Lister, once Jim and Bexley were soundly asleep."

"They certainly do seem to be recovering at an astonishing rate," said Kryten. "The chicken pox usually lasts ten days or more. It's only been a few hours and they are already in the late stages of the illness. They'll be themselves again in no time."

"Good to know," said Lister in relief. "Good to know…"

Lister watched them sleep. Looking at them was like into a mirror, two faces that looked indistinguishable from his memory of how he looked at their age, how he looked in the few pictures that he owned from his childhood. The only difference was the healing spots from the chicken pox that covered their faces, but it looked much better now than it did.

"Well, did you tell them?" asked Rimmer, walking over to Lister's side.

"Tell them what?" asked Lister.

"You know," said Rimmer. "When you went up to have that talk with them on the Observation Deck."

"Yeah," said Lister. "I told them."

"And how'd they take it?"

Lister shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"No problems?" said Rimmer in disbelief. "No arguments? No questions?"

"They're always full of questions," said Lister simply. "So was I when I was their age. Wait—what do you mean by arguments?"

"Well, did they try to talk you out of making them go back to their universe?" asked Rimmer.

"Keep it down, keep it down," hissed Lister, checking to be sure that the twins were still soundly asleep.

"What?" cried Rimmer skeptically. "You mean you _haven't _told them?"

"No," said Lister, staring at his feet.

"Why?"

"I just couldn't do it, man," said Lister heavily. "They're so young. I just didn't think they'd understand it yet. I didn't want that weighing down on their minds—that we plan on leaving them in another universe—I just couldn't do it."

"Then when are you going to tell them?" asked Rimmer, crossing his arms. "You'll have to do it sooner or later. If you don't tell them, they'll start to notice the changes themselves."

"I know," said Lister. "I just couldn't bring myself to tell them that their lives are going by so fast or that they'll be leaving. It's make them too sad and it would be heartbreaking for me."

"If it's not too personal," said Rimmer. "Would you mind telling me what you did say to them up there?"

"I just told them all about the Earth and how we got on Red Dwarf in the first place," Lister replied.

"Did you tell them the circumstances behind their births?" asked Rimmer. "Yeah," said Lister. "I told them where they came from. I just didn't explain to them they they'd be going back."

"And how'd they take it?" asked Rimmer curiously, rubbing his hands together.

"Really well," said Lister. "That's what I thought you were asking about before. Kids have the biggest imaginations and are more accepting of new ideas that anybody else. I think kids should have been the ones in charge. They're so totally innocent and uncorrupted by the world. They didn't even have any trouble understanding, really."

"Yes," said Rimmer. "I'll bet that the only confusion that they'd have would be in whether to call you mum or dad."

"How long do you think they'll sleep?" asked Lister, ignoring yet another one of Rimmer's comments. "Oh, and another thing. Would you kindly call those skutters off again? They haven't quit yet! I don't need those shots anymore. I'm actually still trying to get over the side effects, believe it or not."

"I can see that," said Rimmer. Lister glared at Rimmer as he pulled on his leather jacket and zipped it up.

An hour later, Jim and Bexley had woken up groggily after Kryten had come in promptly with lunch trays for them as soon as their eyes had flickered open, and was currently checking all of the twin's vital signs like a fussy mother hen—fluffing their pillows, smoothing their bed sheets, spooning their food into their mouths. Lister thought Kryten might even move their jaws up and down for them to chew. He examined a scabbed-over spot on Jim's arm under a magnifying glass, and administered more calamine lotion to their sores. Then he insisted on reading them Jack and the Beanstalk and taking their temperature for the fourteenth time.

"I'm pretty sure there's nothing wrong with their toenails," said Rimmer, after he thought Kryten's mollycoddling had gone on long enough. Rimmer himself had insisted that the boys wear mittens to stop them from scratching, and had also threatened Lister with mittens if he didn't stop scratching, too.

"Yes—they appear to be perfectly healthy, Mr. Lister, sir. In no time the scabs will completely heal and since we were able to prevent infection there should be little to no scarring. Their ageing anomalies are causing their bodies to heal three-hundred percent faster than a normal child would. They should be on their feet and good as new any time now."

"Thanks, Kryte," said Lister, who hadn't left their bedsides the entire time. "That's great news."


	24. Let's See Space

**Day 10, Part 3**

Jim and Bexley were back on their feet and just as vivacious as ever as two completely healthy ten-year-old boys. They had made a complete recovery from the chicken pox in record-breaking time, just as Kryten had said they would. The spots had completely vanished and their skin was now so unblemished that it looked as though they had never even had the common childhood illness.

Jim and Bexley were sick of being confined to their beds, and were more than happy when Kryten had finally said they could leave the medical unit. Now Jim and Bexley were ready to have some fun. They liked climbing around the rafters in the cargo deck, which made both Lister and Rimmer anxious.

"Get down from there before you break your neck!" Rimmer yelled up to Jim, who had jumped up, grabbed a pipeline running the length of the wall and was using it like a monkey bar. Bexley was leaning halfway over the edge of one of the railings, grinning down at Lister and Rimmer.

"Please come down here, boys!" Lister called from the ground floor of the cargo decks. "Rimmer's right. I don't want you two up there. You could get really hurt."

"Okay," said Jim, stepping towards the banister. "I'll come down now."

"I want to slide down first!" said Bexley.

"I get to go first," said Jim.

"Why?" said Bexley, cocking his head to one side.

"I'm older," said Jim simply.

"No you're not," said Bexley.

"Yes I am," said Jim.

"Dad—who's older?" Bexley called, leaning over the rails. "Me or Jim?"

You're twins," Lister yelled back. "You're the same age."

"Yeah, but who was born first?" said Bexley.

"Jim was," Lister responded.

"Ha!" said Jim, sticking his tongue out. "I told you, Bex!"

"But only by two minutes," Lister hastily added. "That's nothing!"

"It still makes me older," said Jim triumphantly.

"It just means that you'll get old and die first!" Bexley retorted.

"Nuh-uh!" said Jim, shaking his head. "You'll probably do something stupid and die before me!"

"Boys, stop it!" Lister said. "Come down here now."

Jim took a running start down one of the hallways in the cargo deck, leaped onto the metal barrister of the staircase, and slid all the way down, landing neatly on the floor fifty feet below. Bexley did the same, sliding smoothly down the rail, while Lister looked on anxiously. Rimmer shook his head and walked off.

Jim took a speedball from the crook of his arm. "Go long, Bex!"

Bexley ran ten yards from Jim, glancing over his shoulder as he ran, as Jim threw a perfect spiral ball. Bexley watched the ball's progress through the air. He leaped into the air as if taking off from a springboard, thrust his arms into the air and above his head, and neatly caught the ball in midair. He fell to the floor, landing on his stomach, and tumbled several times, before leaping to his feet and pumping one fist in the air. "Got it!"

"Way to go, Bexley," Lister called. "Nice spiral, Jim. Just like I showed you."

"Thanks, dad," said Jim and Bexley together.

"Throw one for me now," said Jim, tossing the ball to Lister.

Lister caught the speedball in one hand. "I dunno…"

"Come onnnn," whined Jim.

"Just one throw," said Bexley, holding up one finger.

Lister shook his head. "I don't know if you lads could handle playing against me. And Bexley, remember, I told you that when you want to show someone the number one, you put up the first long finger, not the middle one, remember? Unless you're asking for trouble."

"Oh yeah," said Bexley, correcting his mistake.

"Please?" Jim pleaded. "Just one throw?"

"Oh, all right," said Lister, defeated. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

Lister wrapped his fingers around the red ball, wound up his arm, and threw. The ball spiraled through the air and Jim and Bexley raced after it to be the one to catch it, and Lister looked on in amusement.

As Jim and Bexley rolled around on the floor fighting over the speedball, Lister noticed Kryten walking towards him, looking fretful about something as usual. He was wringing his hands together and the corners of his mouth were being tugged downwards in the closest approximation of a frown that the mechanoid could manage. "Oh, sir…"

"What is it, Kryte?" asked Lister at once. "You look as if the washing machine came to life and told you that it had decided to run for government."

"It's even worse than that, sir," said Kryten despairingly. "It's the skutters, I'm afraid. Mr. Rimmer will be able to explain it to you in more detail if we go up to him."

"Alright," said Lister. He jerked his head to the side and said, "Jim—Bexley, let's go."

"What d'you mean they're on strike?" said Lister, perplexed. He laid back in his bunk with his feet tucked up underneath him.

"I mean that they refuse to do any more work," said Rimmer, running his hands through his hologramatic hair. "Frankly, Listy, they're pretty fed up with you right now—between the medical examinations and the operation. They haven't been put to work this much in over three million years. Then they had to fix me when Thing One and Thing Two had to have their fun. They've rebelled. They've made little picket signs and everything. They're threatening to put their union into effect and take legal action against us for overworking them, supposedly. Heaven forbid we give them three or four tasks in two days."

"I don't believe it," said Lister skeptically. "The skutters can't go on strike!"

"It's true, Dave," said Holly. "They're a little tad bit more than annoyed that you and the twins have interrupted their Wild West movie marathon so many times."

"I threatened to cut off their oil rations," Rimmer continued. "But I can't because they've hoarded a stock in the supply cupboard."

"But why are they rebelling now?" asked Lister. "What was it that did them in?"

"I believe that the straw that broke the camel's back was my mere suggestion that they could possibly do more to help out around the ship," said Kryten. "They are mechanoids. It is their job to serve humans just as it is mine. If Bob can manage lassoing an Aldis lamp from a distance of twelve meters, he should be able to roll the elastic on a pair of socks!"

"Doesn't their programming keep them from rebelling, just like yours, Kryten?" Lister reasoned.

"Yes!" cried Rimmer. "Kryten! Of course, that's it—you can sort them out! You can stamp out this stupid rebellion idea! You have my full permission as Senior Ranking Technician on this ship to dismantle the goits!"

"Me, sir?" gasped Kryten.

"Yes, you," said Rimmer impatiently. "You of all—all—things can do something about it!"

"Not exactly, sirs," said Kryten regretfully. "I'm terribly sorry, but my morality chip will not let me treat my fellow machines in such a way."

"That's right," said the Cat. "It's totally immoral. If anyone even _thought _of dismantling my trouser press they'd be in big trouble!"

"And it's not Lister they're rebelling against," said Holly. "All of my sources tell me that it's you they're mutinying against you, Arnold."

"Me? Why me? I just don't understand it, Holly!" said Rimmer. "I've _always _had problems with machines! Why is it that they all seem to resent me?"

"Oh, shut up Rimmer, you smeghead," smirked Holly.

Rimmer snarled at Holly, who quickly said, "I was only joking. Can't I have a laugh every now and then, too? I know for a fact that Pinky and Perky are having a good laugh at me right now."

"Maybe that's why they're so smegged off at you," said Lister. "Their names aren't Pinky and Pinky. Their names are Bob and Madge."

"I am the superior officer here and I'll call them whatever I please," said Rimmer stiffly.

"Technically, they do outrank you, Rimmer," Lister pointed out. "How would you like to take orders from a lower-ranking crew member, say, me?"

"The skutter's creators at DivaDroid International did not think it necessary to install guilt chips in them as they are merely service droids designed for more menial tasks. Therefore, they have a ninety-seven percent higher chance than any other droid of having neurotic, independent rebellious behavior and thought processes. I certainly wouldn't want the Series 4000 to be represented by them."

"So they won't listen to anybody, then?" said Lister.

"I'm afraid not," said Rimmer. "Not until their terms are met."

"And what are they?" said Lister incredulously. "Do they want more bread or their taxes lowered?"

"They want to be made Supreme Rulers of the Galaxy, actually," said Rimmer. "That's what their signs said, at least. If we don't monitor them carefully they might even start up their own leaflet campaign."

"I don't like to speak ill of my fellow mechanoids," said Kryten. "But their behavior is embarrassing and completely unorthodox at times! I mean, look at their handiwork on Mr. Lister! They did a horrendous job. I'm surprised that Mr. David hasn't died from hemorrhaging yet. I wasn't going to say anything as long as they held, I didn't wish to criticize my fellow droids, but now I can go all out! It's pathetic the suturing they've done. It looks like the work of a farsighted old woman with rheumatoid arthritis attempting to sew in a straight line!"

"So, do you think you could've done a better job?" asked Lister, who had to agree with Kryten's analogy as he surveyed his stitches.

"Well, it's too late now, sir," said Kryten. "There's nothing we can do now. But yes, I imagine I could have done a more satisfactory job, yes. I imagine it wouldn't have been too much different from sewing. If I had just went to go get some anesthetic and a staple gun…"

"No—I'm fine," said Lister, shuddering. He glanced down at Jim and Bexley, who were sitting at the foot of his bed.

"Maybe you should go off and play while we sort this out," Lister said. Then he thought of everything that had happened to the boys when he let them wander off on their own and decided against it. Jim and Bexley had began to rise when Lister said, "I've changed my mind. On second thought, I think it'd be best if you stay here."

"What's a strike?" asked Jim.

"When you decide that you don't want to do something anymore," Lister explained.

"Oh," said Bexley. "Can I go on a strike against listening to Rimmer?"

"Oh ey," said Lister, ruffling Bexley's hair affectionately. "Now there's my smart boy. I can't believe I never thought of that!"

"Oh, yes, very funny," said Rimmer, sniffing loudly through his flared nostrils.

"So, what do we do about the skutter strike?" said Lister.

"The same thing that the establishment always does about strikes and protesters," said Rimmer simply. "Either wait for them to get tired and give up on their own, or get out the tear gas and the machine guns."

"I don't believe that shotguns will be necessary, sir," said Kryten. "I am sure that the skutters will realize how atrocious their behavior has been and resume their duties in due time."

"In the meantime," said Lister, turning his attention to his twin sons. "What do you boys feel like doing now?"

Jim and Bexley thought for a moment. They exchanged a few glances and wordless hand gestures, then nodded at one another in silent agreement.

"It really creeps me out when they do that," said the Cat.

"So? What do you want to do?" asked Lister.

Jim and Bexley grinned at each other and said, "We want to go out in space."

"It's quite convenient, actually," said Holly. "We're just approaching a planetoid with a suitable gravity similar to that of Earth. You'll still need your spacesuits, of course, the atmosphere is lethal to humans."

"Yeah, that's great and all," said Lister. "But do they make spacesuits small enough for Jim and Bexley?"

"Of course they do," said Rimmer. "The Jupiter Mining Corporation didn't discriminate towards the vertically challenged. I'm not sure they had ten-year-olds in mind, though."

"Are you sure that you want to take them out there, sir?" asked Kryten. "It's awfully big out there."

"They said they want to see space," said Lister, grinning at his sons. "I'll show them space."

Lister opened up his storage locker to retrieve his spacesuit. As he went to close the locker door, Jim put his hand in the way to stop the door closing and pointed inside the locker. "Who's that?"

Lister opened up the door again to see what Jim was pointing at. "Oh, that's Marilyn Monroe," Lister explained. "She was a big Hollywood icon in the twentieth century back on Earth."

"I think she's pretty," said Bexley.

"Yeah," said Jim. "Me too."

"Join the club. So did Joe DiMaggio, Arthur Miller, James Dougherty and J.F.K.," said Lister, slightly perturbed but not surprised that his sons were already starting to notice girls.

"Is she dead, too?" asked Jim, fearful of the answer.

"Everybody's dead," said Lister. "Even her. She actually died a long time ago, before I was ever born. Thirty-six. Overdosed on sedatives."

"Oh," said Jim and Bexley together. Lister had to laugh at the obvious disappointment in their voices. "Wipe the drool of your faces and come on, lads."

Lister walked with Jim and Bexley and met up with Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten down in the airlocks holding the transport vehicles.

"Here you are, sirs," said Kryten, holding up two small space suits. "I think these should fit."

Lister laid his suit down on the floor and took one of the suits from Kryten and held it up to Jim and Bexley in turn. "It should fit them. They're a little big, but that's probably for the best."

Lister assisted Jim and Bexley in getting their spacesuits on before putting on his own. "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

"Should we take a Blue Midget or a Starbug?" asked Rimmer.

"Starbug?" said the Cat. "What's that?"

"The green one," said Lister. "I dunno. We've never used one of those before. D'you think we could pilot it?"

"I'm sure one of us could," said Rimmer. "It can't be that difficult."

"I would love to learn to be a pilot," said Kryten. "Navigating a titanium mining vessel that weighs several hundred thousand tons is not one of the features included in my programming."

"All right," said Lister. "You can try to pilot it if you think it'll help you break your programming."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Lister," said Rimmer.

"Why not?"

"Because," said Rimmer. "He's just admitted that he's never done anything like this before. I mean, what sensible person would want a robot with a head shaped like a rubrics cube that someone attempted to iron?"

"I think he deserves a shot," said Lister, tucking his helmet under the crook of his arm and leading the way towards the Starbug. Jim and Bexley ran to catch up with Lister and walked on either side of him. Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten followed closely behind.

"Why don't Rimmer and Kryten need spacesuits?" asked Bexley curiously once they had all safely boarded the Starbug.

"They don't need air and we do," Lister explained as the door to Starbug closed behind them.

"Why do we need air?" asked Jim.

"Try going without it any you'll see," said Lister. He soon regretted saying this, because Jim and Bexley did just that. They each held their breath until Lister feared that they might pass out. "Okay! Stop it, now—that's enough!"

Neither Jim nor Bexley could possibly hold their breath any longer. They both gasped and exhaled deeply before gratefully sucking in huge lungfulls of oxygen.

"Yeah, we need it," choked Jim, his face regaining some of its color.

"My head hurts," Bexley complained.

Kryten took his seat in the driver's chair. He glanced around at the many flashing buttons and dials on the dashboard anxiously. "What do I do first?"

"Start it up," said Lister, taking the key from the dashboard and inserting it into the ignition. "We have power."

"Now what, sir?"

"It's---" Lister struggled with how to put the directions to starting the Starbug into words, as he had never piloted Starbug before. He hoped that it was similar to driving a car. "Just let me show you."

Lister flicked a couple of switches on, not even quite sure that he knew what he was doing. He had only driven the Blue Midget before, but the controls didn't look too much different. The engine was running, though, so that had to be a good start. He pressed a few more buttons and suddenly they felt a lift as Starbug picked up and drifted a few feet into the air. "Antigrav, retros, and boosters all set. Yes—we're ready to go! Take it over, Kryte!"

Kryten placed his hands uncertainly over the drive handles. "Now what?"

"Give it some gas and ease forward," said the Cat.

Kryten did as Cat said and the Starbug began to slowly drift forward.

"Yeah!" said Lister enthusiastically. "We're moving now!"

"Holly, open the doors," said Rimmer.

"What was that, Arn?" asked Holly dozily.

"The doors, Holly. If it's not too much trouble."

"The what?"

"The doors!" Rimmer bellowed. "Open the smegging doors!"

"Eh?"

"THE DOORS!" Rimmer, Cat, and Lister bellowed.

"Right. They are closed, aren't they? We'll I'll be a fig newton. That's embarrassing…." Said Holly, finally giving the command for the exit doors to slide open.

Kryten accelerated. The Starbug swerved to one side and scraped all the way down the wall as it neared the doors. It made a horrible grating sound and they could see violent orange sparks out the side of the front window as metal scraped against metal.

"Move over, Kryte," said Lister. "We're getting some drag."

"I'll certainly try, sir," said Kryten, turning the steering wheel and guiding the ship away from the wall. "How embarrassing…"

Kryten was so preoccupied with the shame of scraping the hull against the walls that he didn't realize that he had stomped on the gas. Starbug darted forward at high speed. Panicked, Kryten wiggled the drive wheel and Starbug rose up diagonally and smashed nose first into the ceiling of the air locks on its way out, before plummeting in a downward spiral tailspin.

"I can't do this yet," said a panicked Kryten, leaping out the pilot's chair. "I am merely a mechanoid! I'm simply not capable of piloting such a craft!"

Starbug, with no pilot, continued on spinning through space, its crew moving along with its momentum. Lister, Cat, Kryten, Jim, and Bexley all tumbled around in the cockpit, bouncing off walls and each other as the ship spun out of control. Rimmer remained standing straight up on his feet. The crew rolled head over heels, making brief acquaintances with the floor, ceiling, and front window as the ship continued to careen out of control. Kryten sobbed apologies the whole time as they rolled around the room like a load of socks on tumble-dry. Bodies flew through the air, colliding forcefully into each other, limbs hitting passing limbs, space boots in faces, vacant helmets on free will tried unsuccessfully to force themselves onto their owner's heads.

As the ship flipped over again, Lister was able to grab a hold of the back of the drive seat, his fingernails digging into the upholstery. He attempted to climb into the pilot's chair when the ship violently lurched again and Cat steamrolled from the corner of the ceiling and over Lister, knocking him out of the chair and leaving him dangling from one arm, clinging to the neck rest.

Lister rolled into the chair again and grabbed the driving wheel as the Starbug twisted over yet again. He turned the handles violently and straightened out the ship. Starbug flipped over again and was now right-side up. There was a split second of relieved stillness before gravity claimed the others and they fell to the floor with a sickening _thump._

Lister wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve and it came away stained with blood. He looked in the cockpit mirror and saw that his lip and forehead were bleeding and he was developing a shiner on his right eye. "Is everyone alright?"

"I'm not," came Cat's voice. "Just look at my hair! It'll take a week to get this fro flat again!"

Lister glanced behind him. Cat was sitting against the wall, a small cut oozing blood above his eyebrow. He had already pulled out a comb and was brushing his hair back into place. Rimmer was entirely unharmed—all he had done was have his image flipped over several times as bodies fell through his hologramatic image. Kryten was also undamaged, and was still looking more than ashamed and was still stammering apologies. Jim and Bexley were in a pile on the floor. Groaning, they untangled themselves from each other and got shakily to their feet. They appeared deeply shaken, in more ways than one.

"Can you put it on auto pilot, Hol?" said Lister, leaping out of his seat and coming around the back. "Jim—Bexley—are you alright?"

Lister knelt in front of Jim and Bexley and gave them a good look-over. He examined their faces intently. Jim had a small scratch under his left eye and a bruise forming on his right cheekbone. Bexley had a good sized bump on his forehead from hitting it against the cockpit window.

Lister felt their necks and heads for any more injuries. "How does the rest of you feel?"

"Okay," they said together, in the same small voice.

"D'you still want to see space?" asked Lister. "It's not too late to turn back if you've changed your minds."

"No," said Bexley.

"We still want to go," said Jim firmly

"That was actually kind of fun," said Bexley, the shock beginning to wear off.

"Yeah!" said Jim enthusiastically. "Let's do that again!"

"No way," said Rimmer and the Cat together.

"I haven't had so many feet in my face since I unknowingly volunteered at a day spa," said Rimmer.

"You're hurt," said Jim, pointing at Lister's blackening eye.

"It's nothing," said Lister hastily, touching his swollen eyelid where he had received a knee to the face.

"And there," said Bexley, pointing at Lister's lip.

Lister wiped his crimson, streaming mouth on his sleeve again. "Don't worry about me, lads," he said. "I'm more concerned about you—are you sure you're okay? Nothing else hurts?"

"No," they said together, shaking their heads.

"I'm so sorry for endangering your lives like that, sirs!" wailed Kryten. "I knew I shouldn't have tried to fly. I just don't have the training. It's like when I tried to fly that space bike through the asteroid belt. I never should have risked your lives in a selfish attempt to learn to be a pilot like that. I am very sorry, sirs. I'll just go dismantle myself now."

Kryten rose to his feet and started off.

"Well, it was entirely irresponsible of you," said Rimmer carelessly. "Yes, go dismantle yourself. It's the best thing for everyone."

"No it isn't," Lister said angrily. "Sit down, Kryten. I worked too hard putting you together for that. You'll learn to fly in time. Besides, most people can't get something new down the first time that they try it. It's the same with driving the Starbug. Just give it a few weeks of practice and you'll get it down."

"Do you really mean that, sir?" said Kryten hopefully.

"Of course I do," said Lister. "You can start by reading the manual. I think it's in that glove compartment there."

Kryten reached down and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the Starbug vessel user's manual. He sat down, opened the book, and began to read the introduction.

"Are we there yet?" asked Bexley restlessly.

"No, not yet," Lister answered, peering out of the front window and into the endless cosmos laid out before them.

There was silence for a moment, before Jim said, "How about now?"

"We're just as close as we were when you asked one second ago," said Rimmer impatiently.

Another moment passed. "Are we there _now_?" the twins chorused.

"We'll get there when we get there," said Rimmer through gritted teeth.

"Then how close are we, Head?" asked Cat, examining his reflection critically in the mirror as he counted a hundred brushstrokes for the section of hair he was on.

"We're just coming into orbit, actually," said Holly. "If you look out the view port window you should be able to see it now."

Lister, Jim, and Bexley moved closer to the view port window. A large bronze colored planetoid loomed at them, occupying most of the window's view. The planet had a hazy covering of dusty red clouds and was filled with craters. Holly informed them that the gravity density of this planet was nearly identical to that of the Earth's—1.00 by definition.

"Taking her in," Holly announced. "I'll land you lot and hang around in orbit with the Red Dwarf until you're done."

"It's time to put on the helmets," said Lister, picking up two of the smaller helmets from off the floor and fitting the first over Jim and then Bexley's heads. Lister double-checked to be sure that their helmets were on securely and that their oxygen tanks were fully functional and filled to the max.

"Don't take these helmets off no matter what," said Lister sternly. "Not even if you feel too warm and crowded, do _not _take them off."

"Why?" asked Bexley curiously.

"Because," said Lister, trying not to frighten them too much. "Remember how you felt when you tried to stop breathing? You need your helmets to breathe. Without your helmets on you'd die."

"Really?" gasped Jim.

"Really," said Lister. "And I'm not just trying to scare you either. I want you to promise me you'll never take them off. Do you promise?"

"We promise," they said together.

"You look funny," Jim laughed, pointing at Bexley.

"You do too!" said Bexley, also pointing.

"You both look funny," said Rimmer, who was wearing no space suit at all and didn't need one.

Lister pulled on his helmet and secured it. "Everybody ready? Let's go."

The crew stepped into the air locks. The door slid smoothly open and a staircase unfolded, clanking loudly, and made a loud thumb when the base of the stairs came to rest on the planetoid's surface, a huge plume of copper dust rising.

They clambered out of the Starbug one by one. Kryten was still immersed in his Starbug user's manual. The Cat had a bag of golf clubs slung over one shoulder.

Rimmer stepped off the final rung on the ladder and glanced around the deserted bronze planet. "This is more of a dump than the slums of Io," said Rimmer.

Jim and Bexley gazed at their surroundings with wide-eyed, boyish wonder and excitement. This was the first time they had been outside the Red Dwarf or Starbug.

"Go have fun, boys," said Lister. "Explore the place. Just don't wander off too far. Stay where I can see you."

"Okay, dad," said Jim and Bexley as they chased each other off.

The Cat pulled out the golf tee and forced it into the rigid ground with the bottom of his stylish gold moon boot. He got out a golf ball and placed it on the tee. Next the Cat retrieved his favorite club.

Cat positioned himself to take a swing at the ball. He took his stance, wiggling his hips as if he were about to pounce on the golf ball. He lifted the club up and made a mighty turn at the waist, swinging with all his might. But he didn't make the club swing down and come in contact with the ball. Instead he kept spinning in circles along with the golf club. He let the golf club go as he slowed down. The club whistled through the air, and the Cat watched, hopping on one foot as the club clanked against the midsection of the Starbug some ten yards away.

"Bravo, sir," said Kryten, clapping and trying to sound as pleasant and polite as a mechanoid could, which was quite a bit.

The Cat turned to Lister, grinning triumphantly. "How many points is _that one _worth?"

Lister shook his head. "We'll never know. You never set up a hole for it to go in, let alone land near you."

"If you think you're so good," said the Cat. "Why don't you try it?"

"I can't," said Lister regretfully. "I can hardly move, let alone play golf."

"Fine, be that way," said the Cat. "I'm going to go get my ball."

"Club!" Lister called after him, watching Cat slink off into the distance. The Cat was walking, walking, walking. He appeared to pause and suddenly he was gone.

"Cat?" Lister called, running forward. He had to skid to a halt at the place where the Cat had disappeared and was startled to find himself teetering on the edge of a large crater. He took a step back and looked down into the pit.

The Cat had fallen some ten feet, and was flat on his back down in a crater. Lister couldn't help but laugh as the Cat slowly got to his feet and began to brush the orange dust off his previously immaculate gold spacesuit.

"You okay, Cat?" asked Lister in between fits of laugher.

"How can I ruin my hair _and _space suit in the same day?" the Cat complained.

"I dunno, man," said Lister. "But personally I think it's really funny."

"Yeah," said the Cat grimly, dusting off his shoulder pads. "So is your face. Now, how do I get out of here?"

"What's this?" said Rimmer smugly, striding up with his hands clasped behind his back. "How are you going to get out of this one, you stupid, cretinous creature?"

"I've got it, I've got it," said the Cat. He took a few backwards steps, then ran forward and took a flying leap. Rimmer and Lister expected him to grip the edge of the crater and clamber up. Cat instead surprised the both of them and cleared the edge, landing gracefully beside them. "See? It's a piece of cake when you're a Cat. I bet you couldn't do that."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Cat," said Rimmer complacently. "For a start, _I _wouldn't be stupid enough to end up in a crater in the first place."

Lister held a hand up to his helmet and looked around. "Where are the twi—"

He stopped when two screams suddenly pierced the air.

"Oh smeg," said Lister, trying to locate the direction of the screams. "What is it this time? I thought I told them not to wander off…"

"Well, I think we know where they are now," said Rimmer.

"But which way?" asked Lister, looking around wildly.

The Cat sniffed a few times and pointed to their left. "That way!"

Lister, Rimmer, and Cat ran in the direction that Cat had pointed. "This way," said Cat, taking the lead.

The Cat stopped in front of a large boulder and sniffed again. "They should be right in front of us."

"Could they possibly be behind that large boulder right smack in front of our faces where the screams are still coming from?" Rimmer suggested.

The Cat sniffed again. "Yeah, I think you might be on to something, laundry-chute nostrils."

Lister rounded the boulder. Jim and Bexley were huddled together, gripping each other's arms in wide-eyed fear.

"What is it, boys?" asked Lister anxiously, as Cat and Rimmer rounded the corner and joined him.

"Alien!" Jim and Bexley cried, pointing.

"Alien?" exclaimed Rimmer, looking in the direction they were pointing. "Where?"

"T-t-there!" shouted Jim, his eyes wide.

Lister's eyes followed the direction they were pointing in, looking for any form of life. He saw nothing. His gaze dropped to ground level, and he found the 'alien' and couldn't help but laugh. It was a small, furry, rodent.

"That's not an alien," said Lister. "It's just a space weevil. It can't hurt you."

"Are you sure?" asked Bexley cautiously.

"Yeah, it can't hurt you," said Cat, bending down and picking up the wriggling vermin. "But it sure makes a good lunch!"

"Let's do something else, lads," said Lister, leading them away. "Stay with me this time, okay?"

"Okay."

They returned to the place where they had landed the Starbug, where Kryten was still reading the owner's manual.

"Want to try some golf?" asked Lister, picking out two smaller clubs from the golf bag and handing one to each of the twins.

"How do you play?" asked Bexley, turning the club over in his hands.

"I'll take you through the motions," said Lister. He stomped two tees into the ground and placed two golf balls on them. "There's the set-up. Now you're both right-handed, so you stand to the left of the tee like this and turn. Bend your knees like I am, raise your club up to shoulder level like this, and swing so the club hits the ball. I would show you me self, but I can't."

Lister helped Jim and Bexley to position themselves. The Cat walked eagerly forward and set up his own tee. "Let me show them! I can make Tiger Woods look like Charles Barkley!"

The Cat raised his club, spun it around his head, twirled in three full circles, did a pirouette, and let his club fly. The golf club swished through the air, turning over several times, and collided with the back of Kryten's head.

"Sorry, bud!" Cat called to Kryten, who waved back. "It's quite all right, sir."

"Now you two do the same thing," said Lister. "But this time, hit the ball instead of throwing the club."

Jim and Bexley simultaneously bent their knees, spun around three times, and swung their clubs with all their might. Unlike the Cat, their clubs actually made contact with the golf balls and sent them into the air, whistling as they went. The two golf balls also struck the back of Kryten's head one after the other.

"Smeg! Sorry, Kryte!" Lister yelled apologetically.

"It's fine, Mr. Lister, sir," said Kryten calmly. "When we return to Red Dwarf I can beat the dents back out somehow."

"Maybe it'd be a good idea to turn back," said Lister, hastily taking the golf clubs from Jim and Bexley before the Cat could give them anymore golfing lessons.

As they boarded the Starbug again, Rimmer muttered to Lister out of the side of his mouth, "They're growing out of their suits."

"I know," Lister mumbled in reply. "I know."

**AN: Alas, yesterday was the last day of finals and school is officially out on Monday for everyone else. On Monday they want me to go to school from 7:30 AM to 9:42 AM just to make up for a snow day we had. Yeah right. I'm done. This means that I have much more time to edit chapters to post and I should get back to my daily updates instead of weekly updates.**


	25. The Talk

Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is not mine

**Day 11, Part 1**

Jim and Bexley were now chronologically two days old. Forty-eight hours. Some two thousand, eight-hundred and eighty minutes. Around one-hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight-hundred seconds. Physically, however, they were three billion, seven million, eight-hundred and forty-three thousand, two-hundred seconds old; they were six million, three-hundred and seven thousand, two-hundred minutes old, and they were one-hundred five thousand, one-hundred and twenty hours old. They were twelve years old.

Holly provided these calculations for Lister. By the time she was done saying them Lister knew her calculations were no longer accurate. Jim and Bexley's ages had doubled in the past twenty-four hours, as had their heights. They now came up to around Lister's shoulders. Lister was deeply saddened as he watched them lose some of their prominent characteristics of childhood. Their dramatic growth was only one change Lister had noticed. They didn't so much look like young boys anymore. Their shoulders had broadened, their arms and legs were thicker and their faces had matured as well. Lister had received quite the shock when he had asked them a question and they answered with voices several octaves lower than Lister had remembered them having ten minutes ago.

That's right. The boys were beginning to hit puberty, and the changes were even more rapid, dramatic, and confusing than any other human male had ever encountered. Lister wished more than ever during these moments that he could slow the ageing process down, not only to help Jim and Bexley to cope with the changes, but to help him out as well. It was all too much to take in. Lister knew for a fact that no parent should have to see their children through their birth and their adolescence in the same week.

This was his last day with his sons—twenty-four hours. His last one thousand, four-hundred and forty minutes. His last eighty-six thousand, four-hundred seconds. It was painful for Lister to watch his baby boys encounter the brutal force of nature that was stealing their childhood and forcing them to become men at speeds never before encountered, whether they liked it or not.

"Can't you do something about them?" asked Rimmer, irritated. "They've been standing there for nearly an hour. I think they've forgotten how to blink as well as how to close their jaws."

Lister glanced over at his sons, who were standing slack-jawed at his luggage locker, gawking at Lister's posters of Marilyn Monroe.

"They're not doing any harm. At least they have good taste," said Lister. "Besides, you know what they say—boys will be boys."

"Well, at least it gives my bedpost a breather," muttered Rimmer. "I've only ever seen that behavior in dogs before."

"They don't know how to deal with it all," said Lister. "They have no clue what's happening to their bodies. I'm sure it's all really confusing for them. I mean, it was only a few hours ago that they were watching Mugs Murphy in the cinema and playing Space Adventurers in the corridors. Now all they can think about is girls—and they've never even met one. They've only seen pictures. It's something we've all dealt with, but most of us get more warning than this, more time to adjust."

"Have you had the talk with them?" asked Rimmer, as he flipped through one of his hologramatic editions of _Fascist Dictators Monthly. _"You know—_the _talk."  
"You mean the birds and the bees?" said Lister, glancing over at Rimmer's magazine to see a black and white photograph of Francisco Franco under the title, _Mr. February_. "Nah, I haven't."

'"You really should," Rimmer advised. "Look at them. They're more clueless than a Kamikaze pilot who plans on going out for Kare Raisu and sake to celebrate after the big mission."

"I just don't want to confuse them," said Lister, lowering his voice so Rimmer had to lean in closer to hear him. "I mean—things are different, you know, over there. I don't want to tell them one thing and have it be the opposite when they get there. That'd be one nasty shock, I know it was for me. I think I'll leave that part to Deb. Besides, I'm not to keen to find out how—how—_things_ work over there."

"You can at least explain the basics," Rimmer suggested. "They deserve to have some idea of what's happening. For them right now, it's the equivalent of growing a second head and saying, 'Oh, hello, when did you get here?'"

"You're right," said Lister. "I've got to tell them the fundamentals, but it won't be guaranteed that they'll understand everything. I picked up some things from my friends, the telly, and my own personal experience when I was young. Or I could explain it to them like my gran did for me. All I would need is a pretty doll and any sort of action man."

"So," said Rimmer, finally putting down his magazine as Lister returned. "How'd it go?"

"I'm not sure, really," said Lister heavily, settling down at the table across from Rimmer with a tray of chicken vindaloo. "You see, I think that I should have used something better than a banana and a doughnut to explain it to them. It really confused them. But I think they get the basic concept of what's happening to them, but not why. I was able to basically explain sex to them, but I stayed as far away as possible from the topic of how sex leads to babies. I don't know how it works where they come from."

"That's probably wise," said Rimmer. "Unless you've changed your mind and want to know how it works now—"

"I still don't," said Lister hastily, stabbing a sizeable chunk of potato and chicken on his fork.

"I mean, you can't honestly believe that all the men in the parallel universe have c-sections," said Rimmer. "I mean, it's not exactly convenient, is it? It takes much longer to heal for a start and it leaves a scar. You must know that's not how it works over there, otherwise it would make more sense to just install zippers in all of their abdomens."

"I don't want to hear this," Lister groaned, putting his hands firmly over his ears and humming loudly.

"You mean to tell me that you're not at all curious of what would have happened with the birth if you had stayed in the parallel universe? It's your duty as their mother to inform them—"

"Sorry, I can't hear you, over the sound of me humming, Rimmer," Lister shouted.

"That's terribly immature of you," said Rimmer contemptuously.

"It can't be any more irritating than that black card thing you came up with," Lister retorted.

"Oh, so you can hear me?" said Rimmer, smiling in satisfaction. "In that case, I can tell you anyways and you'll have to listen…."

Lister hummed even louder over Rimmer's uncomfortable explanation that he had no desire to hear.

"So where are the boys now?" asked Rimmer.

Lister stopped singing and slowly lowered his hands an inch away from his ears, just in case Rimmer decided to pull a fast one on him. "Showers."

"Oh," said Rimmer. "As I was saying, once intercourse takes place—"

Lister leaped out of his chair, taking his vindaloo with him. "I'm going to go see what the Cat and Kryten are doing. Tell the boys where I am once they get out of the shower room. Oh, and a word of advice, watch what you say to them. They're really odd lately."

"Jump here—jump back, _waaaah!" _screeched the Cat, sliding down the corridor. "Hey—I haven't made anything mine in a long time! I'd better do some catching up!" he pulled out his favorite spray bottle of his own personal scent and squirted it onto a pipe running along the wall. "This is mine—that's mine…"

"Yo, Cat," said Lister, appearing around the corner. "There you are. Have you seen Kryten anywhere?"

"Sure, bud!" said the Cat. "I saw him in a room a few corridors back—he's trying to get the imprints of a club and two golf balls out of the back of his head."

"You guys did get him pretty good," said Lister.

"Hey, where are your clones?" asked the Cat. "They're always following you so close, I thought they might still be attached!"

"I just gave them the talk," said Lister. "They're in the locker room's showers."

Lister and Cat walked further down the corridor. They stopped when they saw two skutters gliding around in circles in front of a dispensing machine, each holding a picket sign in their three-clawed beaks.

"Come on now," sighed Lister. "You lot haven't dropped this stupid strike yet?"

The skutters waved their signs angrily in response.

"What's this, then?" asked Lister incredulously, bending over to read the signs. 'Skutter Power?' 'Down With Rimmer?' I totally agree with you guys, but don't you think this has gone on long enough? You're acting as if he'd brought Jimmy Hoffa and Woody Guthrie back from the great beyond!"

"Yeah," said the Cat. "What is it you guys want, anyway?"

One of the skutters flipped it's sign over for them to read.

"'Do Us All A Favor—Turn Rimmer Off Every Other Week?'" Lister read. "Okay, that sounds reasonable enough. Yeah, I think we can find a way to do that."

"I was thinking of doing the same thing myself!" exclaimed the Cat. "Only I would leave him off!"

"The only problem is—"

"COME BACK!"

Two semi-naked blurs suddenly streaked past them, pelting down the corridor and around the corner, screaming all the way, leaving squelching wet puddles in their wake.

"What the smeg was that about?"" exclaimed Lister, staring bewilderingly in the direction the twins had went.

"Was one of them—" said the Cat blankly, pointing in the direction they had gone.

"I think so," said Lister dazedly. "We've got to got after them. Come on."

"Later, Bob," said Lister over his shoulder as he and the Cat strode down the corridor. "See you, Madge. I'll see what I can do about the Rimmer situa—"

Lister and Cat's feet slid out from under them and they landed with a painful thump on their backs as they tried to run on the wet floor. Lister and Cat laid on the floor for several seconds, stunned, before scrambling to their feet and pelting after the two rowdy adolescents.

"Why's the floor wet?" cried the Cat as they jogged after the sounds of the two boys fighting.

"They just got out of the showers, remember?" Lister explained, rubbing his sore back as he limped just behind the Cat.

They rounded the corner and found Jim and Bexley. They had indeed just gotten out of the showers. Their hair was sopping wet and they were steadily dripping great drops of water onto the floor so that a great puddle was forming beneath their bare feet. They were having a furious fight—Bexley was jumping from foot to foot like a boxer, a white towel wrapped around his waist. He dangled another towel tauntingly in Jim's face. Jim was not wearing a towel, but was bollocks-naked. Jim was too dangling an object in his brother's face—a photograph.

"What the smeg is going on?" yelled Lister.

"Give it to me, Jim!" shouted Bexley, clawing at the photograph. "And then I'll give you your towel back!"

"No way, Bex!" Jim yelled back, grabbing for his towel. "You give me my towel and then I'll give you the picture!"

Bexley yanked the towel away from Jim, holding it above his head. "No smegging way!"

"You have to do what I say!" yelled Jim into Bexley's face. "I'm older than you!"

"Only by two minutes!" Bexley screamed back.

Jim swung at Bexley, his fist colliding with Bexley's jaw. Stunned, Bexley fell and crumpled back against the wall. Enraged, Bexley leapt to his feet and charged with his head down at Jim, forcing him up against the wall. Yelling, Jim pulled on Bexley's dreadlocks until he screamed in agony, and Bexley pulled on Jim's dreadlocks equally viciously.

"Do something!" cried the Cat. "Or we'll have a Jamie Bulger case on our hands!"

"Boys, boys!" cried Lister, forcing himself between the two of them. "Break it up, lads. Come on, now. Stop it!" He caught their fists in his own stronger hands as they each went to take another swing at each other. "STOP IT!"

Jim and Bexley stopped fighting momentarily and glared mutinously at each other.

"You're brothers," said Lister, keeping a precautionary hand on each of their chests to keep them away from each other. "You're not supposed to act like that. You're supposed to be friends. What's got into you two? What's this all about?"

Lister snatched the picture out of Jim's clamped fist and stared at it in disbelief. "All this over my picture of Marilyn Monroe? I have a whole bunch of these, if you had only asked. There's no need to fight over it."

"But I had it first," said Bexley angrily. "And he took it."

"Well, you got soap in my eyes," Jim retorted.

"You took my rubber duck!"

"You used all of the hot water!"

"You towel-flicked me!"

"But you stole my towel!" Jim shouted past Lister into Bexley's face.

"There!" said the Cat, pulling on Bexley's towel. "Now you're even!"

Lister buried his face in his hands, thinking. "Right. We're going to fix this. Bexley, give Jim back his towel."

Bexley grudgingly handed Jim his towel, and Jim gratefully wrapped the towel around his middle.

"And you, Cat."

Cat gave Bexley his towel back. "And no more indecent exposure. You seem do be doing it all the time—when you were born, and now this! What d'you think this is, a nudist colony? Well, you're wrong, bud. Only on Thursdays."

Bexley blushed, wrapping the towel securely around his waist.

"Now that we're all somewhat properly clothed," said Lister. "You boys need to set things straight. That behavior does not fly with me. You're brothers. Twins. And identical twins at that. That's just about the closest that you can be to someone. I hate seeing you boys treating each other like that and I don't ever see or hear you fighting like that again, especially over a girl. Especially if it's just a smegging picture of a girl who's been dead for over three million years. Never let a girl get in between you two. Always put each other first. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Jim and Bexley mumbled.

"Good," said Lister, nodding his head. "Now I want you two to apologize to each other and never let this happen again."

"What's 'apologize' mean?" asked Bexley.

"Oh, right," said Lister. "It means to say you're sorry."

"Okay," said Jim. "Bex, I'm sorry I took your picture of that pretty blonde girl."

"It's all right, Jim," said Bexley. "And I'm sorry I stole your towel and then laughed at you."

The twins hugged briefly and quickly let go of each other, each looking away uneasily.

"There," said Lister contentedly. "Doesn't that feel better now? Now go get some clothes on."

"Well, that should do it," said Kryten pleasantly, emerging into the sleeping quarters. "I've just spent the last few hours panel-beating my head back into shape."

"Nice job, Kryten—it looks good," said Lister, impressed. "Sorry about all that, mate. Jim 'n Bexley didn't mean anything by it."

"It's quite alright Mr. Lister, sir, there was no serious, permanent damage done. You know what they say: kids will be kids, just as dogs will be, well…"

"Slobbering idiots?" Lister suggested.

"Your words, not mine, sir," said Kryten. "But wonderfully chosen if you don't mind me saying so. The only thing that really bothers me is that I spent the last nine hours repairing myself, and have consequently gotten terribly behind in today's laundry."

"Can't all that smeg wait?" said Lister. "Take a break. Enjoy yourself. Have a drink or something."

"Mechanoids can't take a rest or have a drink, sir," said Kryten, laughing humorlessly. "Not when there are humans to serve. Where are the young Mr. Lister's anyway?"

"Changing in the washroom," said Lister, indicating over his shoulder with his thumb. "They just had a bit of a tiff over a photograph of Marilyn Monroe."

"Could it be?" said Kryten. "They have already started their maturing process to go from being boys to men, and I wasn't there for it?"

"It's called puberty," said Lister solemnly. "And it only just started for them. They're really lost and confused. I tried to explain it to them but I think it only made things worse for them. It really tears me up inside, man. It's just so unfair for them. Their entire childhoods have been stolen from them. It's too much to take. They're taller and older-looking every time I see them. I don't even recognize their voices anymore. I just wish there was someway I could make everything up for them, give them back all of the time they've lost. I just can't believe that I'm on me last day with them."

"It is a tragedy, Mr. David, sir," said Kryten sympathetically, placing a caring hand on Lister's shoulder. "Being a mechanoid, I am incapable of feeling human emotions, so I can't honestly comfort you by saying that I know how you feel. I can't even say it out of that context because mechanoids are incapable of lying. But I can say this—I've grown very fond of their cheery little faces and I will certainly miss them, especially doing their extra laundry."

"I'm really trying not to think about it, man," said Lister. He hugged his knees to his chest in his bunk and rocking back and forth, wistfully chewing the end of one of his dreadlocks. "It breaks me heart whenever I do. I just can't imagine life without them now."

"DAD!" Jim yelled suddenly.

"Can you come here?" Bexley bellowed.

Lister rose from his bunk and headed for the washroom. "I've got to see what they need, Kryten—I'll be right back."

Lister tugged open the door to the washroom and let it close behind him. He stood with his hands on his hips. "What is it?"

Jim and Bexley were standing in front of the mirror, half-dressed in trousers Lister had lent them. They were examining their features critically, their fingers running around their faces.

"Me and Jim both have got the chicken pox again," Bexley explained.

"They hurt like smeg," said Jim, gingerly touching a spot on his chin. "They just showed up. Do we have to have that gross medicine from Kryten again and stay in bed?"

Lister sighed and moved closer to the mirror, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. It had only been around ten years ago that he went through this stage himself. "Let me see."

Lister looked at them each in turn, putting his hand gently under their jaw line and across their necks, turning their faces to examine the blemishes.

"Don't worry about it, lads," said Lister consolingly, releasing his hand from Bexley. "This isn't chicken pox this time. It's just another stage that everyone goes through—it'll pass before you know it.

"Even you?" said Jim uncertainly.

"Even me," said Lister, nodding.

"Isn't there anything we can do to make it go away?" asked Bexley hopefully.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "I hate it."

"Nope, sorry, lads. You'll just have to wait it out," said Lister. "There is something you can do for acne, though—try washing your faces with some soap and water. That'll clean your skin and help you from getting more breakouts."

Jim nodded, and reached for the bottle of soap by the faucet.

"You probably shouldn't use hand soap on your faces," said Lister as dug around in his medicine cabinet for any sort of face wash. "I don't have any. I know for a fact the Cat does. I'll go ask him."

Lister had turned to go, when he twisted back around and held up a stern finger. "And stop touching your faces. Don't pick at them, or they won't heal as fast. And don't let Rimmer see you picking or he'll make you wear those mittens again or some of his nocturnal boxing gloves. Be good. I'll be right back."

"I got our lunches," said Lister, stepping into the sleeping quarters. He set the three trays of chicken tikka masala on the table. Thirteen-year-old Jim and Bexley, now fully clothed in Lister's London Jets shirts and spare ship-issued camos, were sitting in Lister's bunk, their eyes glued to the television monitor. The Cat was laying in the other bunk, looking equally mesmerized. "What're you watching?"

"Nothing," said Jim and Bexley together in their deepening voices, each crossing their legs in one swift motion.

Lister glanced at the screen and saw that they were watching one of his boxing videos—the female topless ones. "Totally disgusting," said Lister in disbelief. "I can't believe you lot are watching this trash—version 2.4 is much better!"

Lister joined Jim and Bexley in the bunk and handed them each a lunch tray. "Careful—they're hot, in more ways than one."

"They're not the only things that are hot in this room," said the Cat, licking his lips as he stared unblinkingly at the screen. "I'm rooting for the brunette, though the blonde has a very persuading game plan. Dodge left, spin right—up, down…"

Rimmer sauntered into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "Well well, well, what do we have here?" he said, sitting down at the table and watching the screen. "Absolutely disgusting. Lister, you of all people should understand how hideously demeaning and just plain wrong these videos are."

"Oh really?" smirked Lister. "Then why are you watching it?"

"And look what it's doing to them!" exclaimed Rimmer, pointing at Jim and Bexley. "They're literally drooling! They're sex-obsessed, I tell you!"

"No they aren't," said Lister defensively. "They're just a bit curious. It's perfectly normal."

"Hey, Bex," said Jim suddenly. "Guess what I just thought of: what does your name rhyme with?"

"Oh, I know, I know, pick me!" cried the Cat, enthusiastically waving an arm in the air.

"Sex?" said Bexley hesitantly.

"Yeah," said Jim. "That's right."

"Damn!" exclaimed the Cat. "You shoulda called on me! I knew that one!"

"You see?" said Rimmer triumphantly. "What did I tell you? Completely obsessed."

"Dad," said fourteen year-old Jim concernedly, rubbing his bristled face. "What's this weird stuff on my face?"

"Yeah," said Bexley, feeling his face as well. "What is it?"

Lister glanced at their faces. "It's just facial hair, and boys usually start to get it around your age. I have some too, see?" said Lister, stroking his jaw line. "I was just thinking of shaving—come here, I'll show you how."

Lister strode over to the washroom and stood by the bathroom mirror. Jim and Bexley obediently followed.

Lister splashed tap water over his face and picked up his bottle of shaving cream from beside the faucet. He shook the bottle and squirted a generous amount into his left palm. "See? You get the foam like this, and spread it all over the parts of your face you want to shave."

Lister rubbed his hands together to get the foam on both palms, and then smeared the frothy white foam all over the lower half of his face and onto part of his neck.

"Your turn," Lister picked up the bottle of shaving cream again. "Hold out your hands, boys."

Jim and Bexley both held up their hands with their palms facing upwards and Lister squirted a blob of shaving foam into their hands. "Now do like I did."

Lister turned back towards the mirror, and watched his sons smear on the foam in the reflection over his shoulder. _"I can't believe I'm already teaching them how to smegging shave_," Lister whispered to his reflection. "_It feels like just the other day I was teaching them to walk. Wait—it was_."

"Now what?" asked Jim, forcing Lister to snap out of his reverie.

"Wait one smegging moment," exclaimed Lister, stepping back and staring at Jim and Bexley. "Is that shaving cream under your arms, too?"

"Yeah," said Jim, shrugging.

"Aren't you supposed to shave there, too?" asked Bexley, bewildered behind his beard of foam.

"No," said Lister, shaking his head vigorously and handing them each a bath towel to wipe the foam off. "Blokes don't do that. Not even French women do that."

"Now," said Lister, picking up his razor. "Then you use this a razor to shave off the hair. Watch out, it's sharp. You just hold it to your skin and make strokes like this to shave off the hair," said Lister, demonstrating by shaving his chin and moving outwards. "There's some tricky parts, so you've got to be careful or you'll cut yourselves. Now—let me see if I can find new razors for you two…"

Lister dug around in the medicine cabinet and found two new razors, handing one to each of the twins. "Be careful," he cautioned. "The new ones are always brutal."

Lister finished shaving and wiped the remnants of the shaving cream from his face with the hem of his shirt. Lister admitted to himself that he had kind of missed shaving, as he had been unable to grow any sort of beard once the effects of the hormone shots had kicked in. The stubble that he felt on his face that morning was a much welcomed sign to him that things were starting to return to normal in his body.

"There. That's how it's done. Now let's see you boys try," said Lister, folding his arms and standing with his back against the bathroom counter, moving aside so that his sons had full use of the mirror.

In one motion, Jim and Bexley each hesitantly raised the blades to their chins and gave them a smooth downward stroke. Lister nodded in approval. So far, so good. They each did as Lister had done, following his same routine that he had demonstrated. They now had one more place to shave. They both turned their head in the same direction to shave the difficult jaw line, where wispy hairs had sprouted not twenty minutes ago. As their blades moved in identical motions at the same time on their identical jaw lines, Jim and Bexley both winced and jumped as one as the razors nicked their skin.

"Smeg!" they both yelled in pain, hopping up and down, dropping the razors and clutching their hands over each of their own cuts, which were now bleeding profusely.

"It's all right, it's all right," said Lister quickly. "You almost had it—that happens to everyone at some point. It hurts though, doesn't it? I _hate _that feeling. Here—"

Lister grabbed a bog roll and unraveled two long strips, bundling them up and handing one each to the twins. "Hold them to the cut and press down hard. The pressure will stop the bleeding eventually."

Jim and Bexley did as they were told, wincing in pain, their faces stinging where the razors had taken a greedy bite out of their skin.

The toilet paper stuck to their faces quickly absorbed the blood pouring from the cuts and Lister unraveled more paper, bunched them up, and handed them to the boys.

"Thanks," they said gratefully, tossing the old bloodied toilet paper into the garbage bin and pressing the new paper to their faces.

"I know," said Lister sympathetically. "It's right up there on my list of the most painful things you can go though after giving birth, being kicked in the happy sacs, and listening to an album by Toad the Wet Sprocket. But women still have it the worse, I think. We only have to shave this small part of our bodies. They have to shave both their legs, armpits, and when bikini season comes around they have to go have half their thatch ripped out. We blokes really do have it easy. I never realized this before I had you too, but men don't know pain. Not in this universe, anyways."

"What're you looking at, boys?" asked Lister, striding up to wear Jim and Bexley were sitting side by side in his bunk, pouring over a volume.

"I dunno," said Jim. "But it's good."

"It makes everything you said make more sense," Bexley added.

Lister turned his head to see the book upside down. "Oh—that there is the Popup Kama Sutra. You shouldn't be looking at that! I didn't get my first copy until I was at least half a year older than you. It's useless to you two anyways. There's no women or cars around here. And besides, it's mine."

"I know," said Jim, turning the page. "It's still interesting."

"Very interesting," Bexley agreed, his eyes widening as he scanned the new page.

"I know," said Lister, taking the book from Jim and closing it. He set the book aside and climbed into his bunk between Jim and Bexley. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a comic book. "I think this is much more appropriate for now."

Rimmer strode into the room at that moment, sitting down at the table.

"I remember the first time I met your mum," said Rimmer reminiscently to the twins. "It was over three million years ago. We met when Red Dwarf stopped at Mimas to restock supplies and he came in as the newest recruit—as a lowly Third Technician, the lowest ranking crew member. Believe it or not, but he was even more pathetic then he is now. I was his superior officer, in charge of Z Shift. I knew he would be trouble and a pain in my side the moment I clapped eyes on him."

"That's not how it happened. Don't believe him for one minute, boys," said Lister, looking up from his comic book. "Everything he tells you is a pack of lies. We met way before Red Dwarf. He hired my hopper back on Mimas, pretending to be an Officer. He tried to go incognito, wearing a false moustache and everything. I could still see that he was a weaselly little smegger even with his petty disguise. He had me take him to an android brothel."

"W'as that?" asked Jim, as he and Bexley looked on the comic book with Lister. They couldn't read the text, but they liked looking at the pictures.

"A whore house," Lister explained, turning the page. "A place where scum-sucking slime balls like Rimmer go and pay a robot customized to their fancies to have sex with them because they're just that sad and pathetic."

Jim and Bexley grinned at Rimmer cynically.

"What a bunch of malicious slander," said Rimmer agitatedly, his face reddening. "I told you—that wasn't me, that was Todhunter!"

"Yeah," laughed Bexley. "Whatever you say, Uncle Arn."

"Enough of that adolescent sniggering!" said Rimmer testily.

"Hey!" said Jim, looking up from the comic book and pointing at the fish tank. "I never noticed that before! What are they?"

"Those are my robot goldfish," said Lister. "I named them Lennon and McCartney."

"Why?" asked Bexley, walking over to the goldfish and tapping the tank. Lennon and McCartney swam away from Bexley to the other side of the tank.

"After John Lennon and Paul McCartney," explained Lister. "They along with George Harrison and Ringo Starr made up a rock group called The Beatles in the twentieth century. They were all from the same place as me—they were actually called the Sons of Liverpool. There was even a museum back home dedicated to them. I watched this documentary on them not long before I left Earth. When Paul died in 2019, Ringo went a bit bonkers, had a few drinks, and went to see a hypnotist who convinced him to torch the Beatles Story Exhibition on Albert Dock in Liverpool. The hypnotist turned out to be phony."

"Really?" said Rimmer curiously. "I've never heard that before. Did they ever find out who the hypnotist was?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "It was Yoko Ono."

**AN: So, so many changes in this chapter! It was sad when I wrote this, knowing Jim and Bexley weren't going to be cute little kids from this point on. Again in this chapter I used numbers. Numbers are my enemies along with the whole subject of math, as I have said before. So any mathematical errors from Holly can be blamed on her computer senility. **

**There's one line in this chapter I'd like to point out. One day I made the mistake of leaving the house and leaving this document open when I was writing it. My dad, being the joker he is, sat down and typed in the following line, "Jimmy Hoffa and Woody Guthrie back from the great beyond." I have no idea what this is or where it came from, but I left it in because my dad thought it was pretty funny, whatever it is. Maybe he should co-write with me more often. But then again, he also suggested that instead of writing Red Dwarf fanfiction I write a story about the adventures of a traveling red balloon. So maybe co-writing with my dad wouldn't be such a great idea after all. **

**kellyofsmeg**


	26. Of Course They're Tetchy

**Day 11, Part 2**

As the day wore on and puberty continued to hit Jim and Bexley like a tidal wave, the boys became increasingly frustrated, moody, and sullen. Everyone had to be on tenterhooks around them. They had become prone to sudden bursts of, for the most part, unprovoked anger in conjunction with their raging levels of testosterone. They took their aggression out on anything from each other to the defenseless rubber plant.

Jim and Bexley were currently unaware of their surroundings, immersed in watching volume three of Lister's female boxing videos that he had discovered in the locker rooms months ago.

Lister and Rimmer were sitting across from each other at the student's table. Lister was reclining back in his chair at ease with his feet up on the table, only a few inches away from Rimmer's face. Lister sneezed loudly halfway through swallowing a mouthful of a chocolate malt shake, spraying the substance all over his surroundings. Rimmer's nose crinkled in distaste and he scooted further away from Lister, who was immersed in watching the screen in a trancelike state.

"I wonder," said Rimmer, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "What puberty would be like in their own dimension?"

"I dunno," said Lister, taking another long sip of his shake and spilling half of it down his front. Rimmer couldn't help but marvel at how Lister always succeeded in feeding his shirt front more than himself. This, unfortunately, was a trait that Jim and Bexley had inherited as well, as they had displayed so well every time they attempted to do what they called 'eating.'

"They've been a bit tetchy lately," said Rimmer. "I merely asked them how they were doing and they told me to smeg off."

"Of course they're tetchy," said Lister sympathetically. "You'd be a bit tetchy too if your balls were dropping faster than a pair of maraschino cherries on top of an ice cream sundae in the middle of July."

"It's got to be different than it would be here," Rimmer speculated. "If the roles of males and females are reversed over there. It's actually probably better that they're going through their adolescent years over here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Lister frowning and dabbing at yet another new spill to his t-shirt.

"It'd probably be just like raising a pubescent teenage girl here," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "I've always heard the opinion that it is easier to bring up boys than girls. With girls, you have to worry about being sure that the bathrooms are always stocked with tampons and other feminine products. You have to be suspicious of their boyfriend's intentions—will you find birth control in her Coach purse, or a couple of Trojans stashed underneath her bed between the pages of a novel by Louisa May Alcott? Yes, Listy—I'd say that raising boys is certainly easier. Your only concern for them is to be sure that they stay out of the cheerleading club and don't have dolls in their backpacks."

Lister suddenly looked quite worried, and stole a glance at his sons to be sure that they weren't listening. He instantly saw that he was safe to say whatever he pleased, they couldn't have looked more vacant if they were comatose. "Are you trying to say that when we, you know, take them back—that the gender roles will be reversed and they'll have to deal with all that smeg?"

Rimmer nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Lister visibly shuddered, and took a long sip from his half-full or half-empty glass, willing his mind to think of anything else than what was in store for his sons.

Jim and Bexley, forever hungry because they were growing like weeds, announced that they were going to go get some more food from the dispensing machines. They each returned with a foot long sandwich piled with every topping known to man.

Bexley saw Rimmer eyeing his sandwich enviously as he ate. "What, do you want some?" said Bexley, his mouth full as he proffered his sandwich to the hologram.

"No thank you," said Rimmer, smiling stiffly. "I can't eat food, if you didn't remember."

"Why not?" said Jim, hitting his chest with his fist when he swallowed a sizeable bite that didn't quite fit down his esophagus. "Oh, right! You can't eat because you're dead!"

"Yes," said Rimmer bitterly. "Thank you very much, Captain Obvious."

Bexley took a huge bite of his sandwich, closing his eyes and chewing slowly, being careful to make sure Rimmer was watching. "Mmm," he said tauntingly. "This sandwich is so good…"

"I can't imagine what it's like for those poor smeggers who can't eat," said Jim, tauntingly waving the remainder of his lunch in front of Rimmer's snarling face.

"All right, all right, that's enough, boys," said Lister, grinning. "You can stop it now. It's unnecessary. He gets it. You can eat and he can't."

Rimmer continued to sit with his arms crossed. A permanent scowl was fixed on his face as he stared at the opposite wall, his hologramatic mouth watering for just one bite of the sandwiches the boys had—he would do anything just to remember what it was like to eat.

"Want a sip?" cackled Lister, proffering his chocolate malt shake to Rimmer.

…

Lister, Cat, Jim, and Bexley were all sitting around a table in the Recreation Room having a game of poker. Lister and Cat had just finished explaining the game to the boys. They now planned on playing a practice game to help them get the idea of how it works.

"Now you put in you antes," Lister said. "Since you boys are first-timers we'll start small and not play for keeps," he wriggled his ring off his finger and put it into the center of the table.

Cat removed one of his silver fish skeleton earrings and placed it into the setting as well.

"Wow," said Bexley, poking at the earring. "I like this!"

"Me too," said Jim. "It looks like Lennon and McCartney but a lot skinnier."

"Really?" said the Cat, taken aback. "I hate that old thing!"

"What should me and Jim put it?" asked Bexley, digging in his pockets for any artifacts, but finding nothing.

"Umm…oh, I know," said Lister, digging into his pocket and producing the picture of Marilyn Monroe that they had been fighting over earlier that day. "It'll count for the both of you."

Lister turned around in his chair to look at Kryten, who was polishing anything in the room that could hold still. The occupants of the room feared remaining stationary for too long, lest they get a squirt of surface polisher in the face. "Kryten, man, are you sure you don't want to play?"

"I'm quite sure, Mr. Lister, sir," said Kryten. "Besides, I have nothing to bet. I have few possessions apart from my spare heads."

"What about you, Hol?" said Lister.

"Afraid I can't at the moment, Dave," said Holly. "I'm rather busy."

"Busy?" said the Cat disbelievingly. "You? No way are you busy."

"I am actually," said Holly defensively. "I'm only navigating a ship the size of a small city. Plus I was just preparing for the you-know-what by making sure the Holly Hop—"

"Holly!" said Lister sharply, nodding toward Jim and Bexley. The boys weren't looking or paying any attention for that matter, but were involved in a fierce game of rock, paper, scissors. "Ontday alktay aboutway ethay ollyhay ophay ivedray aroundway emthay."

"Oh, right," said Holly, nodding. "Iway ikelay otay eakspay italianway ootay."

"You've never spoken Pig Latin before, have you, Hol?" said Lister.

The Cat elegantly Hindu shuffled the deck and dealed them each five cards. Rimmer suddenly strode into the room, looking very smug indeed.

"What is it now, Rimmer?" said Lister, briefly glancing up from his hand.

"I've done it," said Rimmer triumphantly, hands clasped proudly behind his back, his eyes bright as his nostrils flared.

"Done what?" said Lister, not even attempting to sound interested.

"Just look at yourself!" exclaimed the Cat. "You're so full of yourself I'm choking from the smug!"

"The skutters must have taken my threats seriously," said Rimmer arrogantly. "They've put off their strike."

"That's old news, man," said Lister, placing his bet. "They ended their strike when I promised that we'd have you switched off every other week or something like that."

"You did _what_?" cried Rimmer in horror. "You can't just appease them by promising to have someone switched off like that—who do you think you are, Pontius Pilot?"

"Don't worry about it," said Lister offhandedly. "Just disappear for a few days every other week, wander off to some other part of the ship, take a tour of the Diesel Decks or something. You liked doing boring smeg like that. They'll think we've done it—they'll never know the difference."

"That'd be doing us all a favor!" grinned the Cat. "Did you see those signs they had? Those dudes knew what they were talking about."

"I can't believe you agreed to have me turned off," said Rimmer, shaking his head dejectedly. "That's what really gets my goat. After everything we've been through—"

"Rimmer, relax. What matters is that their strike is over. Just chill. Now that the whole things blown over, they'll probably just forget about it all."

Jim turned his hand of cards over and over again, as if trying to make sense of them. Bexley stared at his own cards, looking equally baffled. Bexley leaned over to look at Jim's hand, wondering if the two sets looked anything alike.

"Hey, no peeking!" Jim exclaimed, holding his hand out away from his twin.

"What are these little squiggly things?" asked Bexley, holding up a red 3 of hearts card.

"Oh, that's right," said Lister. "We can't play the game, Cat. It'd take forever. They haven't learned their numbers."

"What d'you mean they haven't learned their numbers?" cried the Cat. "Even _I _know my numbers, and I am one-hundred percent self-taught!"

"Yes," gloated Rimmer. "That explains everything. It is quite the accomplishment for you, isn't it, Cat?"

"So, what else do you boys feel like doing?" asked Lister.

"I know," said Rimmer. "I discovered a storage locker with utilities not yet accounted for. We could always add those to the supplies list if we're looking for a good time. Reading out the names and checking off the boxes next to each item is only half of the fun!"

"Oh, really?" said the Cat. "What's the other half?"

"Hey, Rimmer," said Lister. "I only now just remembered something I wanted to tell you. I was watching Channel 27 earlier and saw a commercial for a documentary they were going to show today on twentieth century telegraph poles. I think it just started."

"Really?" said Rimmer. "That sounds fascinating. It's on right now, you say?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "You go on ahead. We'll be there once we've cleaned up here."

"See you in a moment, then," said Rimmer, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he strode out of the games room in the direction of the sleeping quarters.

The Cat rounded on Lister. "Buddy, are you crazy? No way am _I_ watching some dumb show about telegraph poles. Why'd you tell him we'd come?"

"I believe that it's called a distraction, Mr. Cat," said Kryten. "A technique to ward off unwanted nuisances."

"Like Rimmer?" said Jim.

"Sure," said Lister, shrugging. "It works for pretty much anything, though—solicitors, collection agencies, old girlfriends…"

"You mean there is no documentary?" asked the Cat.

"No," said Lister, grinning as he shook his head.

"Whew," said the Cat, wiping his brow. "That was a close one, bud. Good thinking."

"I know what we could do," said Lister, throwing down his hand and leaping up from the table. "Let's play some pool."

Lister strode over to the pool table and picked up his favorite cue with the black stripe around the middle. He picked up the cube of blue chalk from the middle of the table.

"What's that for?" asked Bexley, pointing to the chalk.

"You put it on the end of the cue and use it to jab people in the forehead and leave blue dots all over them," said Lister, grinding the cube of chalk against the cue tip.

"Really?" said Cat.

"No, not really," Lister laughed. "I'm not really sure what it's for. I think it's got something to do with friction."

Lister put the triangle onto the smooth green velvet of the pool table and fished all of the pool balls out of the side pockets and into the plastic triangle. Once all twelve balls were in place, Lister removed the triangle and set it aside.

"I'll break," said Lister, standing at the back of the table and lining up his shot. "Show you boys how pool's really supposed to be played. Watch and learn."

Lister closed one eye and looked down the cue. He pulled his right arm back, moved it forward again, and took the shot. The white ball charged into the triangle and the balls clinked together as they scattered like frightened mice around the table away from the white cat. Five of the balls blindly found their way and scurried into the pockets on the sides of the tables.

"Ye-es!" exclaimed Lister, pumping his fist. "That, boys, is a break! What did I say? Dave Lister, pool God!"

"Let me try," said Jim eagerly.

"Then me," said Bexley.

Lister handed Jim the cue. "This shot'll tell us if you're playing stripes or solids."

Jim lowered himself closer to the table and squinted one eye closed, aiming just as Lister had. He took the shot, and the white ball rolled into the middle side pocket.

"I did it!" exclaimed Jim excitedly. "I won!"

Lister dug his hand into the pocket the ball had went into and pulled it out.

"What are you doing?" asked Jim, looking confused.

"That's called a scratch," Lister explained, holding up the white ball. "It's not a good thing. You don't want the white ball to go in. You're either colors or stripes, right? If you scratch you have to take one of your balls from the pockets and put it back on the table. The first one to hit all of their balls and the eight ball into the holes first wins. If you hit the black eight ball in and it's not your last, then you lose."

"You sure do know a lot about pool, Mr. Lister," said Kryten. "Could it have anything to do with you being discovered under a pool table? Did you ever leave that pub?"

"Hardly," Lister grinned. "Your turn, Bex."

Bexley took the cue from Jim, aimed, and shot. The white ball collided with the eight ball and they both fell into the corner left hole.

"Ah, rotten luck, son," said Lister, shaking his head. "Game over. Don't worry about it--it takes a while to master the art form. Six hours every day in a pub to be exact."

Rimmer appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed. "Well? What's taking you so long?"

"We just felt like having a game first," said Lister innocently.

"There's only one problem," said Rimmer.

"What's that?"

"There is no documentary on about twentieth century telegraph poles," said Rimmer glowering. "There's some twaddle about methods to keep women's stockings from running."

"Look, man—" Lister began apologetically.

"Who would cancel such a fine program?" asked Rimmer, aghast. "I want the name of whoever ran that station."

"Yeah," said Lister quickly. "It must've been cancelled. That's it. Those weaselly smegging broadcasters…"

Jim and Bexley both yawned suddenly, stretching their arms above their heads.

"Where are you going, boys?" asked Lister, putting the pool cue back on its rack.

"To the bunks," said Jim.

"We're tired," said Bexley.

"All right," said Lister, as Jim and Bexley turned to go. "Should I come with you—do you remember the way back from here?"

"It's all right, dad—" said Bexley, pausing in the doorway.

"We know the way," Jim finished, and the twins walked shoulder-to-shoulder out of the room.

Lister reclined back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. "Look at them. They're nearly completely grown up. Did you hear their voices—they've gotten so low. And they're almost as tall as me. See how independent they're becoming, walking back to the sleeping quarters on their own?"

"Yes," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "It's quite an accomplishment not to get lost on your way from the Recreation Room to the Officer's Quarters, you know. They don't need you anymore, Listy. Their new best friends are their right hands."

"Just imagine how confusing today's been for them," said Lister concernedly. "Just try to imagine what it's been like for them. When the day started, right, they were around twelve. Then, all of a sudden—wham! They turn thirteen. Puberty hits 'em. They started off the day as kids, and now they're practically full-grown men. I don't blame them for being so tired."

"You'd better hope that they don't sleep long," said Rimmer, glancing at his watch. "Because you've only got eleven hours left with them."

…

"Look at them," said Rimmer, standing beside the bunks where Jim and Bexley's sleeping forms lay. Jim was in the top bunk and Bexley had taken the bottom. "They suck their thumbs when they sleep just like you do."

"Really?" said Lister interestedly. "Do I snore like that, too?"

"No," said Rimmer. "They're silent as the dead compared to you."

"Do we have to wake them up?" said the Cat. "I was kind of enjoying the peace and quiet!"

"They do look really peaceful, don't they?" whispered Lister, cocking his head to one side and watching them affectionately. "I don't have the heart to disturb them."

"They do appear quite tranquil, sir," said Kryten. "I'm telling you—it's from that sandwich they had earlier. Turkey always does make one quite sleepy."

"But they've been sleeping for six hours!" Rimmer cried. "Holly's got the Hop Drive prepped to leave in five hours! They'll be seventeen in one hour and eighteen four hours from then."

"Don't worry," said the Cat, pulling a purple-dyed feather out of one of his many pockets. "They're not really sleeping."

Cat leaned over and tickled Bexley under the nose with the feather. Bexley squirmed and he the Cat giggled when Bexley smacked his own face, but Cat had already removed the feather.

"Cat!" Lister exclaimed angrily. "What was that for? Let them be!"

"I was just testing his reflexes," said the Cat innocently. "What about the other one—"

"No," said Lister firmly, grabbing the Cat's wrist and wrestling the feather away from him.

"As I was saying, if we're going to stick to your plan—" Rimmer interrupted.

"I know man, I know," said Lister soberly. "It's just—part of me still can't believe that I'm just dumping my sons off in another universe. There's so much I haven't got to show them yet. I kinda feel like a failure as a parent. They're nearly adults and I still never got around to teaching them how to read or write. I haven't even had time to show them how to make the perfect shami kebab."

"They have to go _today, _Listy," said Rimmer. "May I remind you of something you've surely tried to forget—a horrible, highly unpleasant accident involving the navicomp, your youngest son, and a lethal explosion that will take place within the next twenty-four hours if they stay here? I mean, I only estimated that Bexley was twenty-five, he could have been younger."

"What're you talking about, grease stain?" asked the Cat.

"He's right," choked Lister, collapsing into the desk chair, all color rapidly draining from his face. "The future echoes, remember? Rimmer thought he saw me die in the Drive Room, but my future self told me and Rimmer that it wasn't me who had died, it was Bexley. He told me what happens to Bexley when he's around my age. My future self must have known that we'd need the warning so that we wouldn't keep them here; knowing that if I didn't send them off in time, Bexley would… he would…"

"Your future echo must have known that if you couldn't save Bexley's life, you could at least postpone his death," Rimmer finished, realization dawning on him.

Lister looked sick to his stomach. His whole body trembled as he spoke in a quavering voice, "I can't believe that I was so smegging happy back then—when my future self told me that it wasn't me who died I was too relieved to realize it was actually about my son. I don't think I really understood the effect of it all, or believed myself for that matter. I wasn't a father yet. I didn't know what it was like to have sons. I thought I'd have years to spend with them, not three days. Now I wish it could've been me instead of him…"

There was a long respectful silence as Lister struggled to compose himself.

"Sir," said Kryten, placing a comforting hand on Lister's shoulder. "I have a suggestion for something to cheer everyone up and at the same time celebrate our remaining time with Mr. Jim and Mr. Bexley. Why don't we have a party for them before we use the Holly Hop Drive, sort of like a going away party?"

"Yes," said Rimmer. "It could be like a birthday party."

"Their first birthday party," said Lister, his countenance brightening ever so slightly. "We can do it when they turn eighteen, like Kryten said—just before we Holly Hop. Brilliant idea, Kryte!"

"I'll make the cake," Kryten volunteered excitedly. "I'll be in the kitchens if anyone needs me."

"Someone should be in charge of decorations," said Rimmer.

"I will," said the Cat.

"I'll get some groovy tunes," said Holly. "Who'd like to hear my new scale? I think I nearly have all of the bugs worked out."

"And I'll have the skutters set up some entertainment," said Rimmer. "Who's up for a game of RISK?"

"Anything but that, Rimmer," said Lister. "I'll distract the boys while you lot get everything ready."

"How're you going to do that?" asked the Cat.

"Come and get me when the party's all set up. In the meantime, I'll treat them to a game," said Lister, rubbing his hands together, "of Better Than Life."

**AN: It's really winding down now. Once again, Kryten knows about the pool table from Lister because this episode was the original home of Lister's story about how he was found. **


	27. Better Than Life

**Day 11, Part 3**

"Where are we going?" asked Bexley groggily, as Lister led his tired, sleepy-eyed, tossle-haired children down the corridor towards the Games Suite.

"We're going to the game room," said Lister. "There's something I want to show you that I think you'll really like."

The door to the games room automatically opened as they approached. Lister picked up three pairs of the Better Than Life headsets and handed one each to the twins, keeping one for himself.

"What is it?" asked Jim, turning the headset over and over in his hands.

"You like games, right?" said Lister. "Well this is one of the best games you'll ever play. It's a total immersion video game called Better Than Life. You actually think you're in the game. And the best thing about this game is that you get whatever you wish for."

"Wow," said Jim and Bexley in wonder, staring at the headsets with a new appreciation.

"We can only be in here a few hours, though," Lister cautioned. "You see, the game's super addictive. You can't stay in too long or you'll become a Game Head. We'll all leave together—all you have to do is wish yourself out."

"Aren't Cat, Kryten, and Rimmer coming with us?" asked Bexley.

"Umm, no," Lister said. "There aren't enough headsets."

"What do we do?" asked Jim, turning his helmet over in his hands.

"I've already loaded the game into the machine. All you have to do now is put the headsets on," Lister said, as he put his own headset on and fastened it. Jim and Bexley did the same. The tiny little electron wires wriggled down from their holes inside of the helmets and burrowed deep into their skulls, feeding off their brainwaves.

The games room on Red Dwarf vanished, disappearing in a whirlwind of colors. The solid gray linoleum floor faded away. The spinning suddenly stopped, and Lister, Jim, and Bexley walked through a large mahogany door with a plated gold welcome sign bearing the legend, "Welcome to Better Than Life."

Lister, Jim, and Bexley stepped over the threshold and into the game. They heard a peculiar sloshing sound when their feet made contact with the floor inside the game, and they were startled to discover that they were submerged up to their knees in water.

"Smeg," said Bexley, looking down at his legs. "Where are we?"

"And where'd all this water come from?" asked Jim, stomping his feet and spraying all three of them with water.

Lister surveyed their surroundings. The sky was a vibrant blue and dotted with cirrus cloud formations. The water beneath their feet was vibrant blue in color and crystal clear. Through the water Lister could make out white sand beneath their feet. Palm trees and other tropical plant life were sprouting out of the water on all sides of them.

"This is Earth, boys," said Lister, smiling widely.

"Really?" said Bexley keenly. "You mean we're actually _on_ Earth?"

"Not literally," said Lister. "But the game makes you feel like you're genuinely there, so you may as well be. Judging by the water level, I'd say we're in Fiji."

"That's right," said a voice behind them. The three of them swiveled around and saw a man in all black. Black hair, black jumper, black slacks, black shoes. He was grinning peevishly. "You are indeed in Fiji, the place your heart most desires to be. Welcome back to Better Than Life. I see we have some newcomers. Welcome, welcome. Here in Better Than Life all of your wildest fantasies will be fulfilled the instant you think about it. There's nothing that can't happen here. In fact, you may even discover, as many before you have, that this game is indeed better than life and you'll never want to leave."

"Can we really have anything we want?" asked Jim excitedly, his eyes lighting up.

"But of course, young sir," said the host. "The guitars are right over there up that embankment of sand."

Jim and Bexley turned and saw two authentic Les Paul copy guitars on stands sitting on a raised plateau sandbank. They cheered and waded out of the knee-deep water and scrambled up the sandy embankment.

"Wow, look at that!" exclaimed Bexley, pointing to his trouser legs. "I just wished that they would dry and they did!"

"Me too!" Jim exclaimed, touching the fabric to test if it really had dried or if it was just an illusion. "Brutal!"

The boys each picked up a guitar and slung the straps around their necks. A guitar pick suddenly appeared in each of their hands and they began to strum the guitars loud and tunelessly.

"Look at this, dad!" Jim yelled. "The guitars just came out of nowhere! They look just like yours"

"That's great, son! It sounds really good!" Lister called, waving. He turned to the host, who was suddenly holding out a silver platter. Lister's eyes grew wide and his mouth watered in longing of what was on the platter: a packet of cigarettes and a can of ice cold, wicked-strength leopard lager.

"Here you are, sir," said the host, extending the tray to Lister. "Just what you know you want."

Lister stared longingly at the tray. He bit his lip. "It's really tempting, man, but I really shouldn't…"

"Why ever not?" said the host. "This is Better Than Life, where you can have whatever you desire."

"I can't," said Lister bitterly. "It's a long story. I'm on pain medication—I'm not supposed to mix narcotics with depressants or some smeg like that."

"But you forget," said the host. "You are in a video game, not reality. Whatever you wish comes true. It's completely harmless here, you see? You're not on pain medication. You don't even need it. See for yourself."

Lister briefly registered that the host was right: he was in no pain whatsoever for the first time in days . He wasn't even tired. He didn't feel that familiar ache in his stomach, even. He rolled up his shirt—the skin where the caesarean section had been performed was no longer red and swollen, and the sutures were gone. The skin was smooth and flawless, not even a scar was visible. In fact, his stomach looked as though he had never been pregnant at all. "Smegging hell…"

"You see?" said the host, offering Lister the tray again.

"I still shouldn't," said Lister regretfully, nodding in the direction of Jim and Bexley. "I've got to set a good example for me sons."

"They're not looking," said the host smartly.

"You've got a point there," said Lister finally, taking the package of cigarettes and the can of lager. "Cheers, man."

"Enjoy your stay, sir," said the host. He gave a small bow and vanished.

Lister ripped open the packet of cigarettes in relish. He stuck a cigarette in between his lips and reached in his pocket for his lighter when he realized that he hadn't been carrying a lighter around for more than a week—the whole time during his pregnancy that he wasn't smoking.

"Smeg," exclaimed Lister, stomping angrily and spraying the clear ocean water everywhere. Then he remembered where he was, and willed a lighter into his hand. An instant later, there it was. A gleaming silver lighter.

Lister flicked the top open and produced a flame, lighting the tip of the cigarette. He took a breath of the smoke in and held it for several seconds before releasing it slowly. The puff of smoke came out in perfect rings and floated above his head. Bliss.

He glanced behind him—Jim and Bexley were still totally immersed in playing the guitars and were paying him no attention.

Lister wished he had a chair, and a dry place to sit. Suddenly the water he had been standing in and a meter out in all directions vanished, revealing white sand. A foldout cushioned beach chair appeared, complete with a striped umbrella for shade. Lister sank gratefully into the chair and laid back, grinning, the sun warming his face. A moment later he was wearing sunglasses, a flower lay, and his favorite leather deerstalker which he had previously taken off to put on the helmet. The water on his trousers dried up instantly in the sun just as Jim and Bexley's had done. He placed his cigarette in his ear for safekeeping and opened up his can of lager.

Lister grinned as he surveyed his surroundings, sipping the ice cold lager appreciatively. He was on Fiji. He was on Earth. He had his cigarettes and a can of the best tasting lager he'd ever had. He was with his sons. He had also noticed a doughnut and hot dog diner in the distance where the employees working were most likely wearing green hats. And that was definetly a sheep on stilts wearing a scuba mask complete with a snorkel that just waddled past him. Yes, things couldn't get any better. This wasn't just his fantasy, it must be the twin's fantasy as well. They must have taken to heart everything he said about Earth and Fiji yesterday.

If only he could have had this in real life. This was exactly what he'd wanted before the crew had died in the radiation leak. It was only three million years too late and Kristine Kochanski was long gone. But in this brief moment here, he at least got a taste of what it would have been like if he'd have ever made his dreams a reality. But if this was the closest thing he would ever get to having it, he'd take it.

"Dad!" Bexley yelled suddenly. Lister jumped, and quickly downed the rest of his lager, crumpling up the can and tossing it aside. He stuffed the pack of cigarettes into his breast pocket and put out the cigarette. "Dad! Look! It's Marilyn Monroe!"

Lister looked where he saw Bexley and Jim pointing excitedly. It was indeed Marilyn Monroe.

"Oy!" Lister called to The Blonde Bombshell. "You're still here, then, are you?"

"It's all make-believe, isn't it?" Marilyn responded, sauntering off, swaying her hips provocatively, collapsing onto a feathery, velvet-covered heart shaped bed.

"I don't believe it!" cried Jim, as he and Bexley ran down the embankment and splashed through the water to join Lister. "Was that really her?"

"No," said Lister. "She's dead. That's just a copy of her memory, how she was when she was alive—kinda like a hologram. But this is the closest thing you'll ever get to actually meeting her, I guess."

Jim and Bexley stared after her lustfully as she beckoned to them from the bed. They both started towards her and Lister pulled them back roughly by their collars. "Keep it in your pants, boys. She's already caused enough trouble between the two of you."

Jim and Bexley both looked deeply disappointed as Marilyn Monroe got up fussily from the bed and gave them a simpering look, before taking off on a jet ski.

"What are those?" exclaimed Bexley, pointing at three animals wading through water that were passing by. One was small and wooly, another white with black splotches, and the other one was a small chestnut foal on unsteady legs.

"Those must be my farm animals," said Lister thoughtfully. "The small white animal on the right is a sheep. The bigger spotted one on the left is a cow, and the baby one in the middle is a horse. They're not related in any way."

"There's too much water," said Jim, looking out the water on all sides of them, stretching out until the next island was visible.

"Well, Fiji was three feet below sea level in some parts when I left Earth because of a major volcanic eruption," said Lister. "But that's why the prices were so great."

"I wish we could get rid of all this water," said Bexley, and a second later, all of the water retreated off the land in a backwards tidal wave fifty feet high, and crashed back into the sea, leaving a smooth, dry, white sandy beach.

"That's better. Are you boys hungry?" Lister asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes!" exclaimed Jim and Bexley together.

"Let's go to that diner over there," said Lister, pointing to the small restaurant in the distance. "It's just like the one I always wanted to own."

They began to make their long way through the sun-warmed sand, their shoes sinking into the dunes.

"I can't walk in this sand," Bexley complained, as he realized that he had lost one of his shoes five steps back and turned to retrieve it.

"Neither can I," said Jim, taking off one of his shoes and pouring a heap of sand out of it.

"I know," smirked Lister. "Watch this."

As soon as Lister thought about it, a red Mustang convertible suddenly appeared in the sand ahead of them.

"What the smeg is _that_?" Jim cried, looking perplexedly at the vehicle.

"It's a car," Lister explained, opening the right side driver's door and sliding in. "Get in, boys. I'll show you what it does."

Glancing at each other in puzzlement, Jim and Bexley advanced to the car.

"I call front seat," said Bexley.

"But I'm older," Jim pointed out again.

"Well, whoever gets there first, then," said Bexley. "Ready—set—go!"

The twins dashed the few feet to the car and each slapped their palms on the side at the same time.

"Tie," said Lister. "Don't worry, I've got it."

A middle seat suddenly appeared up front. "Get in."

Jim slid into the middle seat and Bexley sat on the left, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Well I got the window seat," said Bexley cheekily.

"Ready?" Lister grinned, and the twins nodded. "I haven't driven a car in three million years, just to warn you. So put those seat belts on."

"What, these?" said Bexley, tugging at his seatbelt.

"Yeah,'' said Lister, as he strapped on his own seat belt. "Those are the ones."

Jim and Bexley had some difficulty snapping their seatbelts into place and somehow became hopelessly tangled. Lister leaned over and straightened out the belts for them. He knew that the boys didn't necessarily need the safety belts in the game, but he'd discovered that he'd become extremely overprotective the last few days.

The keys were already in the ignition. Jim and Bexley laughed in joyous surprise when Lister turned the keys and the engine roared into life. The sounds of Rasta Billy Skank blasted through the stereo as Lister put the car into gear and stepped on the gas.

The convertible took off, accelerating forward. Jim and Bexley whooped in delight, having never been in a car before.

Jim leaned forward suddenly, his locks whipping around his face. He pulled a tape out from the cassette player and held it up. "What's this?"

Lister briefly took his eyes off the road to see what Jim was holding up. When he saw what it was he did a double-take. "I don't believe it—that's my demo tape from the band I was in when I was seventeen, Smeg and the Heads. Put it in."

Jim pushed the tape back into the cassette player and Lister reached over with his left hand and pushed play. "You were in a band, Dad?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "I was the lead singer. But we never got our big break. We really could've got somewhere if we'd ever actually learned to play our instruments. If I had only bought that smegging book that taught you how to play in one day—one lousy day—things could've worked out so differently. Hell, we could've even got on the cover of _Rolling Stone."_

"_Ommm….Ommm…." _issued out through the speakers, accompanied by a lazy, clumsy guitar riff and frenzied, uncoordinated drumming.

"That's you band?" said Jim.

"Yeah," grinned Lister. "That was our number one hit—the Ommm Song. I wrote it meself."

They had reached the restaurant. Lister parked the car halfway on the street and halfway on the sidewalk. Lister, Jim, and Bexley all climbed out of the car.

Lister pulled open the red wooden door and held it open as Jim and Bexley walked in ahead of him. The outside of the restaurant had been painted in welcoming shades of red and green. The inside looked like your typical corner restaurant, and had that warm ma and pa shop feel to it. The floor was black and white checkered linoleum. The walls were half-paneled with birch wood on the bottom, and the top portion of the wall was painted a warm cream color. There was a bar behind the wooden countertop, lined with stools. There were five small tables in the restaurant. The walls were decorated with movie posters, everything from Casablanca to Revenge of the Surfboarding Killer Bikini Vampire Girls. The television on the wall was playing his all-time favorite movie, _It's A Wonderful Life. _Inside the restaurant, the Ommm Song was also playing through the speakers, and everyone in the small diner seemed to enjoy it—it was as if it had made the top of the billboard charts. Lister examined a newspaper on one of the tables and was pleased to see that it had made number one.

"Hello, sirs, how wonderful seeing you again," said the host pleasantly. "Where would you like to sit?"

"Don't you usually tell us where to sit?" said Lister skeptically.

"No," said the host cordially. "This _is _your restaurant."

"Really?" said Lister in disbelief. "I'm the owner?"

"And the founder," said the host.

"Brutal," said Lister, gleefully clapping his hands together. "Where d'you boys want to sit?"

"There!" exclaimed Bexley, pointing to the table nearest the television. The three of them slid into the cushioned leather benches. As soon as they were seated a spotty young waiter came to their table and poured them each a glass of icy water, and then promptly hurried away to serve customers at another table.

Jim and Bexley each picked up their drinks and took a long sip.

"Bleh!" said Jim, spitting the water back into his cup. "It's got no flavor!"

"That's because it's water," Lister explained. "It's not supposed to have a flavor."

"I don't like it," said Bexley stubbornly. He picked up a packet of table sugar, ripped it open, and gingerly tasted it. He grinned and poured it into his water. He took another sip. "That's better."

"What are these weird floaty things in my water?" asked Jim, poking at his drink with his finger and shivering. "It's cold!"

"It's ice," said Lister.

"There's too much ice in my water!" Jim complained, chewing on the end of his plastic straw.

"Ice _is_ water, Jim," laughed Lister. "You can get something else to drink when the waiter comes back."

Lister picked up one of the fold-out menus from the table in front of him and regarded it with approval. The menu was filled with dozens of different types of doughnuts—glazed, old-fashioned, chocolate with sprinkles, doughnuts filled with your choice of crème, custard, raspberry, lemon, strawberry, blackberry, caramel and more. There was also glazed cruellers, maple, sugar coated, cinnamon-apple, powdered traditional cakes, glazed chocolate cake, key lime pie, even New York cheesecake and apple fritters.

There was also a wide variety of hot dogs—not a one of them cinema style. He turned the page and found an entire section dedicated to Indian cuisine with every one of his favorites: chili pakora, chicken samosa, papadams, mint, apple-cranberry and mango chutney, nan, poori, chicken tandoori, chicken tikka masala, mango chicken, keema mutter, lamb korma, chicken t-kadhai, basmati chawai, mango custard, lassi, rice pudding, and of course, his favorite, chicken vindaloo. The menu also contained a color photograph of each food beside the description.

Lister read the menu out to the boys, who were busying themselves eating sugar straight from the little pink packets stacked in the holders.

Lister finished reading the menu aloud and set it down. He saw Jim pouring sugar into his mouth and Bexley ripping open another packet. "Hey—don't do that," said Lister, prying the packets of sugar from their fists. "It'll make you hyper."

"What is it?" asked Bexley, licking his sticky lips.

"Sugar," said Lister.

"I like sugar," said Jim, a mad glint in his eyes.

Lister shook his head in bemusement. "What do you boys want to order?"

"What are you getting?" asked Bexley, reaching for the box of Sweet Medley sugar, but Lister pulled the box out of his reach before he could take any more.

"I'm not too hungry, actually. I'm just getting a chocolate doughnut with custard and sprinkles and a chocolate malt milkshake," said Lister, pointing out the pictures of his order to the twins.

"Does it have sugar?" asked Bexley, bouncing up and down in his chair.

"Loads of it," said Lister. "It's nothing but sugar."

"Then I'll have what you're having!" said Jim. "I love sugar."

"Me too," said Bexley.

"I know you do," said Lister. "It's all you two wanted before you were born."

A waitress came up to their table. She was wearing a green smock and a green cardboard hat with multiple arrows through it. She had her head bent down over her notepad to take their orders.

"Are you all ready to order?" said the waitress, her head down, pen poised to write.

"Yeah," said Lister not sparing the waitress a glance, but staring down at his menu. "We'll have three chocolate doughnuts with custard and sprinkles and three chocolate malt milkshakes."

"Is that all for you today?" the waitress asked, scribbling furiously.

"Yeah, that's all," said Lister, gathering up the menus and handing them to the waitress. When he looked up at her his jaw dropped and he held onto the menus stupidly as the waitress tried to pull them out of his grip.

"May I have the menus, please?" said the waitress, smiling sweetly.

"I don't believe it," said Lister numbly. He knew that pinball smile anywhere. "Kochanski?"

The waitress looked directly into his face for the first time. "Dave?"

"But—but—how?" spluttered Lister. "This is all too good to be true! Everything I've ever wanted is here…"

"This is Better Than Life, Dave," Kochanski reminded him. "And who are these two? Oh, Dave, you know that cloning yourself goes completely against all regulations."

"I didn't clone myself, Kris," said Lister. "These are my twin sons, Jim and Bexley. Boys, this is Kristine Kochanski. I told you about her yesterday, remember?"

"Hello," said Kochanski pleasantly, shaking hands with both of them. Jim and Bexley looked equally baffled when she seized their hands in turn—they'd never received hand shakes before.

"You never told me that you had sons, Dave. You must have been really young when they were born. I mean, it's not everyday that you see a twenty-five year old man with eighteen-year-old sons. You must've been precocious than you ever let on to me."

"They're seventeen, actually," said Lister, glancing at his watch. "And precocious ness seems to run in the family."

"Do you mind if I ask a rather personal question?" asked Kochanski.

"Not at all," said Lister.

"Exactly how old were you the first time you made love?"

"Twelve," said Lister. "On a gold course. Pretty impressive, eh?"

Kochanski seemed equally bewildered when she leaned over and whispered to Lister. "That doesn't add up."

"It's a long story," Lister muttered. He didn't feel like going into the details now. He patted the empty seat beside him. "Maybe if you take a seat I'll feel more like telling it."

"I'm afraid that I can't," said Kochanski. "I'm working."

"Well, I own this facility," said Lister. "And I say that you deserve a break."

Kochanski, crossed her arms, smiling. "You and I own this diner. We founded it together, Dave. Or at least we do in here in the game. It's been so good to see you again. And it was nice meeting you, Jim—Bexley."

"What?" said Lister, alarmed. He stood up from the table and wrapped his arms around her waist, thinking that this was all too good to be true. "Where are you going so soon, babe? I've missed you, you know."

"I'm going to take your order to the kitchens," said Kochanski, smiling whimsically. "Tim needs the orders to make your food."

"Tim?" said Lister in disgust, his smile fading. He released her and stepped back. "Tim works here? As in your ex-boyfriend Tim? That poser chef?"

"That's the one," said Kochanski, walking backwards towards the kitchen. "Except without the ex. Oh, and don't call be babe."

Lister sat down heavily at the table and frowned at Jim and Bexley, who were each sitting with their straws up their noses. "It is all was too good to be true. I guess this just goes to show that you can't have everything in life, not even here. But it was so smegging close."

Lister tried to brush off his encounter with Kristine Kochanski—girl of his dreams, object of all of his lusts and desires ever since he first laid eyes on her in the Copacabana Hawaiian Cocktail bar on his hundred and thirty-fourth time there with Petersen. He had fallen instantly, helplessly, and irretrievably in love. He was a true believer in love at first sight from that moment on. They had dated for three heavenly, glorious, blissful weeks before Kochanski broke up with him and went back to Tim. And now the smeghead Tim was working in the kitchens at _his _diner. He certainly wouldn't have hired Tim, it must have been Kris. They were dating after all.

Lister forced himself to not think about Kochanski or Tim anymore. What did they really matter right now? Kochanski was long dead and the only way to get her back would be to bring her back as a hologram. But Rimmer had hidden her disk. And it wouldn't be the same as having the real Kochanski back anyway. What fun would it be if they couldn't even touch? A relationship all about talk wasn't for him. Lister decided not to dwell in the past and his impossible desires. He decided that he needed to live in the present, in the here and now, with his sons. He needed a distraction.

He picked up his spoon. "Take those straws out of your noses, boys. You'll poke your brains if you push those up anymore. I'll show you something much cooler."

Lister licked his spoon and stuck it to his nose. "See?"

"Cool," said Jim, picking up his own spoon and doing as Lister did. Bexley dug through the empty sugar packets until he found his own spoon. They both licked their spoons and stuck them to their noses just as Lister had done.

"Wow," said Lister, impressed. "You boys got it on the first try. That's natural talent there!"

The pock-marked youth who had poured their water came with their tray of food instead of Kochanski. He put down three coasters decorated with pictures of different types of guitars and then placed a chocolate malt milkshake on each one of the coasters. Then he put a plate with the doughnuts in front of each of them.

"There you go," said the teenage waiter, his voice breaking on every word. "I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

"Yeah, thanks, man," said Lister. He briefly wondered why the game had chosen this spotty youth as their waiter. No sooner had Lister thought this that the young man transformed before his very eyes. In his place there was now a pretty young girl who looked to be in her late teens. Her blonde hair was separated into two pigtails and her vibrant blue eyes were outlined in dark black. The girl was wearing a pink miniskirt and a white tank top underneath her smock, and she looked rather silly with the regulatory green hat perched atop her head. She noisily snapped her pink bubblegum as she poured water for the customers at the next table.

"Smeg," said Bexley, staring after the waitress. "Why'd she have to change after she finished with us?"

Lister glowered at the round chocolate and crème doughnut on the white porcelain plate in front of him as though it had served him a great personal insult. The doughnut was not lopsided at all, but a perfect circle. The chocolate frosting was thick and spread exactly where it supposed to be. The custard in the middle was, well, in the middle. It wasn't oozing custard out of the sides—in fact, he couldn't even see where the custard had been pumped in. The colorful sprinkles were spread neatly onto the top of the doughnut—not even one sprinkle had escaped onto the plate. The doughnut was perfect in every way, except for the fact that Tim had made it. Therefore, Lister refused to touch his food, but instead watched Jim and Bexley as they ate hungrily.

"This is really good," said Bexley, some crème dribbling down his chin.

"And the milkshake isn't bad either," said Jim, who had a prominent brown milkshake moustache gracing his upper lip.

"Why aren't you eating yours, dad?" asked Bexley, accidentally slopping milkshake down his front.

"I'm not hungry," Lister said, pulling several napkins out of the holder and wiping off the front of Bexley's shirt.

"Your shirt doesn't need to be fed, you know," said Lister, feeling quite the hypocrite as he wiped down the Mugs Murphy shirt Bexley was wearing. "Do you think that you boys can manage to actually get any of the food into your mouths?"

"No," said Jim, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "It's hard."

"You missed some," said Lister. He pulled another napkin from the holder and twisted it to make a point. He licked the tip and used it to wipe the corners of Jim's mouth.

"Dad," Jim whined, pulling back.

"I've almost got it all, hold still," said Lister, rubbing furiously at the milk moustache. "This stuff doesn't come off easy, does it? That's probably why they always used milkshakes instead of actual milk for those old Got Milk commercials."

"Can I have your food, then?" asked Bexley eagerly.

"No, I want it!" said Jim.

"You'll split it," said Lister, picking up the doughnut and tearing it down the middle, the warm custard spilling out over his shirt, and handed one half to each of the boys. "There you are."

"His half is bigger!" Jim complained.

"No, your half is!" Bexley argued.

"Yours!"

"Yours!"

"Yours!"

"Yours!"

"Boys, boys!" said Lister, holding up his hands as a gesture of peace. "I made sure that both sides were the same."

Bexley pointed suddenly to the corner of the diner, eyes wide, wiping the crème off his face with the back of the hand. "Jim?"

"Hmm?" Jim responded, licking the chocolate frosting off his fingers one by one.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Is who who you think it is?"

"Him. Over there," said Bexley excitedly, grabbing his twin's head and turning it in the direction he was supposed to be looking.

"No smegging way," Jim gasped, his jaw dropping. "Dad! Look! It's Jim Bexley Speed over there!"

Lister glanced to the counter where Jim Bexley Speed, his sports idol, was sitting. Or at least a computer generated image of his hulking, muscular frame. He was wearing all of his gear and was reading a newspaper while sipping from a cup of earl gray tea through a straw fixed between a gap in his faceguard.

"Can we go talk to him?" said Jim and Bexley together eagerly.

"Sure," said Lister. He began to rise up from the table and was about to tell them that he would come too, when he felt something tug at his pant leg from underneath the table. He jumped in shock, banging his thigh against the underside of the table. Wincing in pain, he quickly sat back down. "Go on ahead, boys."

Jim and Bexley eagerly skipped off in the direction of their namesake. They screeched to a halt in front of his table and each shook hands with him forcefully in an exaggeration of the handshake Kochanski had given them. Jim Bexley Speed looked more than bewildered as Jim and Bexley enthusiastically took his hands, rotating them in wide circles that even went above his head. He tolerated this for a few moments before he withdrew his hands and reached into his pocket for a pen and notepad and began to make out two autographs once Jim and Bexley had each introduced themselves as him.

"Pssss," came a hiss from under the table, and something pulled at his trouser leg again. "I'm down here, bud."

Lister tore his eyes away from his sons and Jim Bexley Speed, who was now listening as Jim and Bexley recited all of his vital stats.

Lister leaned under the table and found the Cat crouched down on his knees on the floor. "Hey, Cat," Lister said. "You scared me, man. I really hit that table hard. I think I can already feel a bruise coming on…"

"Oh no," said the Cat. "How's the table?"

"You're lucky this is only a game, guy," said Lister, massaging his throbbing thigh.

"We've got everything ready, so you can bring them back now," Cat whispered. He looked around from under the table and only counted one pair of legs instead of three. "Hey, where are they, anyways? You didn't lose them in the game, did you?"

"No," said Lister. "They're over there getting Jim Bexley Speed's autograph. We're having a great time."

"I can see that," said the Cat. "We'd better get out of here soon before I start to play the game. I can already picture those Valkyrie warriors…"

"You're right," said Lister, consulting his watch. But his watch registered that it was several hours earlier than he knew it was. Of course his watch wouldn't tell him the exact time, it was the time he wished it was. "Do you know the time back on the ship, Cat?"

"Goalpost Head says that we have barely an hour until the big one-eight," said the Cat.

"I'll go get them," said Lister. "I should distract them myself before they see me talking to you under the table. If they saw you it'd spoil everything. Have you got everything ready—the cake, food, music, everything?"

"Yep. We'll be in the Rec Room with the lights off when you come back," the Cat explained. "See you later."

"See ya," said Lister, as the Cat withdrew himself from the game.

Lister rose from the table to where Jim and Bexley were having an excitable conversation with their namesake. They were both standing on his table as Jim Bexley Speed watched in amusement. The twins were jumping up and down energetically, reenacting some of their favorite plays of his that Lister had shown them.

"Sorry about this, sir," said Lister as he came up to the table. Jim accidentally stepped on Speed's maple bar. Lister reached up and grasped Jim and Bexley's arms, pulling them off the table.

"Do you know them?" said Jim Bexley Speed, pointing to the grinning twins.

"Yes," said Lister. "They're my sons. That's Jim, that's Bexley."

"That's what they said," Speed said thoughtfully. "There's one I haven't seen. I've never met anyone who named their kids after me. They sure are some fans."

"I taught 'em everything I know," said Lister proudly.

"They're quite hyper," said Speed.

"They like sugar," Lister responded simply, twisting his furry leather deerstalker in his hands.

Jim Bexley Speed put his chin in his hand and surveyed Lister. "I can tell. And you're how old?"

"Twenty-five, sir," said Lister.

"And they're how old?"

"Eighteen."

Jim Bexley Speed shook his head slowly. "Do I even want to know about their mother?"

"It's kind of hard to explain, sir. It's kind of one in the same," said Lister, shaking his hand vigorously. "But I've got to be leaving with them. It's been nice talking to you. Sorry about Jim stomping on you doughnut there. You can get a new one on me—"

Lister stopped speaking suddenly. "Wait a mo—"

He craned his head around the table and appeared to be looking somewhere beyond them to the back of the restaurant. Jim and Bexley turned to see what Lister was looking at. It was a janitorial closet.

Lister strode over to the closet in disbelief. "No smegging way," he murmured, caressing the janitorial sign on the aluminum door. "I don't believe it…"

"What is it?" asked Jim curiously, peering into the dark closet.

"This is the same broom cupboard from my old secondary school!" exclaimed Lister, switching on the lights so that the small dingy room was illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with dodgy wooden shelves stocked with every cleaning supplies imaginable—from Mr. Clean to Swarfega. A potato sack filled with sawdust for cleaning up sick sat in one of the corners. Mops and brooms were propped up lazily against the other corner of the room.

"What's so great about a broom cupboard?" asked Bexley skeptically, looking unimpressed.

"Magic happened in this room, boys," said Lister, gesturing widely around the room.

"Really?" said Jim.

"This is where I spent many a class time in the spring when I was thirteen," said Lister fondly, reminiscently. "This is where I met—em—what's her name. My teacher and her teacher both sent us for some paper towels after some acid spills in our chemistry classes. Oh—that's where we first played goosy—here's where we had our first snog—That's where I told her that she was the most beautiful girl I'd seen all day—and that's where she undid me—"

Lister stopped abruptly. "Never mind, we'd better get back."

"We're leaving?" said Bexley, taken aback.

"Yeah, we've been in here long enough, don't you think?" said Lister.

"No," said Jim. "We're having fun, aren't we, Bex? We don't want to leave yet."

"We have to," said Lister. "We've got some other things to do."

"Like what? Why do we have to leave?" whined Bexley.

"Because I said so," Lister replied simply.

"Can we come back later?"

"I dunno," said Lister, not looking at them. He suddenly had an idea. Lister closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Tim dash out of the kitchens with his chef's hat and backside ablaze, screaming, "Put it out! Put it out!"

Lister chuckled to himself and Jim and Bexley joined in as Tim began dragging his bottom along the floor to put out the flames and Kochanski grabbed the nearest flower vase, pouring the water and daffodils onto Tim's hat. This only succeeded in feeding the flames. A fireman crashed through the front door, a heavy-duty hose under his arm. He turned the nozzle and blasted Tim with a monsoon of water, sending him flying to the opposite wall. He squelched down the wall, where he lay in a pathetic pile at Kochanski's feet.

"Tim," tutted Kochanski, her hands akimbo. "What kind of idiot burns a milkshake?"

Once Lister had fixed this perfect moment into his memory, he turned to Jim and Bexley. "I think now's a good time to leave. Just imagine an exit, okay?"

They each closed their eyes and imagined a way out of the game. When they opened their eyes a moment later, a neon pink arrow sign saying "EXIT" suddenly appeared and the three of them stepped through the arrow and back into reality.

"That was so much fun," said Bexley, as the tiny electrode wires crawled out of his skull and slithered back into the helmet.

Lister removed his own helmet and took Jim and Bexley's helmets as well, placing them on top of the console.

"Dad, you'll never believe it—Jim Bexley Speed gave us both his autograph!" said Jim, as he and Bexley dug through their pockets.

"Smeg!" exclaimed Bexley, turning his pockets out. "Where'd it go?"

"Mine's gone too," said Jim, checking his back pockets.

"Of course they're gone," Lister explained. "They only exist inside the game. None of that was really real."

"Oh," said Bexley slowly. "I don't like that game so much anymore."

"Me neither," said Jim resentfully.

"Glad to hear it, lads," said Lister. "It's addictive. And I would hate for my sons to become two Game Heads."

"So what can we do now?" asked Jim.

Lister put his arms around their shoulders and steered them towards the doors. "I'll show you."

He steered them down the corridor and towards the Recreation Room where the others would be waiting.

They reached the door and it automatically slid open as they approached. Blackness greeted their eyes.

"What happened to the lights?" Bexley whispered.

No sooner had the words left his lips that the lights switched on and Cat, Rimmer, and Kryten leapt up from behind the pool table and Holly suddenly appeared on the monitor.

"SURPRISE!" Lister, Rimmer, Cat, Kryten and Holly shouted.

Jim and Bexley jumped in alarm and surveyed the room in stunned bewilderment. Crate paper was strewn across the ceiling, where balloons of every color were floating. Their was a pile of presents on the poker table, and the pool table had been cleared and covered with a plastic tarp, upon which an array of all of Jim and Bexley's favorite foods were set. A large banner across the wall said "HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY." But neither Jim nor Bexley could read this.

"What's is this?" asked Jim and Bexley together, looking puzzled as the Cat placed a flower lay around each of their necks.

"It's your eighteenth birthday," Lister explained, glancing at his watch and doing some quick mental math. "In about, oh… forty-nine minutes."

"What's a birthday?" asked Jim, as Lister strapped a party hat under his chin.

"It's celebrating the anniversary of the day you were born, sir," Kryten explained.

"And you've had seventeen of them so far," said Holly. "Just look how time flies."

"No kidding," said Lister, putting another hat on Bexley.

"How many fingers is eighteen?" asked Jim, toying with the strap underneath his chin.

"It's this many," said Lister, holding up all ten of his fingers. "Plus this many," he held up eight fingers.

"That's a lot of fingers," said Bexley, impressed. "How many fingers old are you, dad?"

"That's a bit of a personal question, isn't it?" said Lister, pretending to be offended. "You never ask an adult how old they are, boys. If you do, they'll all insist that they've been twenty-nine for the past thirty years."

"No, really," laughed Jim. "How many?"

Lister put up both hands twice, and then his right hand once. "Wow," Jim and Bexley said in awe. Lister couldn't help imagining their reactions to how many fingers they'd be if they stayed until tomorrow.

"What d'you say we do food, then cake, then presents?" Lister suggested.

"Sounds good to me," said the Cat.

"I'll just sulk in the corner and watch, shall I?" said Rimmer morosely.

"No, I've prepared some hologramatic food for you, Arnold," said Holly. "There's the hologramatic chicken vindaloo or the sugar puff sandwiches on the menu today."

Rimmer thought for a moment. "What's option C? Is there anything that isn't smothered in madras sauce? Anything that won't leave you on the loo for the next thirty-six hours?"

"Well," said Holly slowly, biting her lip. "There's not much else on the menu besides curries and sugary sandwiches to be perfectly honest with you."

"They're our favorites," said Jim as he heaped spoonfuls of basmati rice onto a plate.

"We know," said Rimmer, Cat, Kryten, and Holly together.

"Here, let me get them for you, boys," said Lister, taking their plates. "Go have some fun."

"Alright," said Bexley.

"Thanks, dad," said Jim.

Lister piled their plates with a little bit of everything on the table and gave them their plates before getting his own. The Cat refused to touch any of the food, but went off to the dispensing machine to get Chicken Marengo and fish.

While Jim and Bexley finished eating, Lister and Kryten went over to the back of the room where Kryten had hidden the birthday cakes.

"Here they are, sir," said Kryten, lifting up the lid of a silver serving platter, revealing a perfectly round, large chocolate cake with strawberry filling and vanilla icing. Kryten had decorated the cake with brightly colored balloons and dots of confetti icing. The cake was circled with eighteen candles of assorted colors. Kryten had tidily scrawled in perfect cursive, "Happy Birthday Jim and Bexley" in red icing.

"What do you think, sir?"

"They're great, Kryte," said Lister, rubbing his hands together. "I'll light the candles. Make sure they don't look over here yet."

"Of course, sir," said Kryten. "How about I perform a juggling act to entertain them in the meantime?"

"Go for it," said Lister, taking up his silver lighter that he'd had Kryten retrieve from his sleeping quarters. He clicked the lighter and a bright orange flame sprung up. He lit each candle carefully, re-lighting some of the more stubborn candles.

Lister finally finished lighting all eighteen candles. He caught Kryten's eye and nodded. Kryten promptly dropped his juggling act, and Jim and Bexley groaned and pleaded for more. Kryten cleared off a space on the pool table for the cake and ushered Jim and Bexley to sit beside the table.

"Ready?" Lister mouthed to Rimmer, Kryten, Cat, and Holly. They nodded.

Lister carefully picked up the tray and advanced slowly towards the pool table, being careful not to let the tray tilt or tip out of his hands. They would have to start singing soon—the candles were very hot and the wax was already starting to dribble down their long slender bodies, leaving colorful sprinkles of wax on the vanilla frosting.

Lister began to sing and the others joined in along with him. Jim and Bexley swiveled around at the sound and grinned when they saw Lister with the chocolate and vanilla cake, with eighteen candles all ignited with glowing orange flames. Their eyes lit up—what teenage boy didn't smirk at the sight of food or fire? Plus, they knew that it was them that were being sung to.

"Happy birthday to you," the crew sang, as Lister slowly walked the cake over to the table. "Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Jim and Bexley, happy birthday to you!"

Lister came around the back of their chairs as the song ended and placed the cake in front of the two of them.

"Make a wish," Lister whispered to them, his hands on their shoulders. "And then blow out the candles."

Jim and Bexley grinned identical smiles at each other, and then leaned over and blew out the candles. Lister, Rimmer, Cat, Kryten, and Holly cheered and those who were able to clapped.

"What did you wish for?" asked the Cat.

"Cat, you know as well as I do that they can't tell you or else it won't come true," said Lister, removing one of the candles and licking one of the frosting off it. Jim and Bexley saw what Lister was doing and they too plucked out the candles and licked the ends clean.

"Just don't eat them," said Lister, patting Jim and Bexley on their backs as he walked past.

Kryten came to the table with a knife and began to cut the cake.

"I want that piece," said Jim, pointing to the part of the cake where he recognized his name spelt out.

"And I want that piece," said Bexley, poking his finger into the part of the cake where his name was.

"Of course, sirs," said Kryten, obediently cutting out the pieces that Jim and Bexley had requested along with a scoop of ice cream and passed them their plates.

"Mmm," said Bexley, taking a large bite of his cake. "This has sugar in it, doesn't it?"

"A full cup of it, Mr. Bexley, sir," said Kryten.

Kryten served the Cat his cake and cut another while Rimmer watched them eat enviously, his eyes fixed on the plates of chocolate cake, his hologramatic mouth watering.

"Would you like any cake, Mr. Lister?" asked Kryten as he scooped out another generous helping of ice cream.

"No thanks," Lister mumbled, staring at the floor. "I'm not feeling so hungry right now."

"As you wish," said Kryten in his most understanding voice.

Jim and Bexley each eagerly finished eating at the same time and threw down their forks, each asking for seconds, and Kryten graciously supplied them with more once he had Lister's approval.

It was quite possible that the twins broke a world record for the speed at which they consumed their second servings of cake.

"More?" said Jim eagerly, holding out his plate to Kryten. Bexley held out his plate as well.

"No, I think you've had enough, boys," said Lister, looking distractedly at his watch.

"Oh, but we want more!" Bexley insisted.

"It's really good," said Jim, and Kryten glowed with pleasure.

"Rub it in, why don't you?" said Rimmer bitterly, his arms folded.

"We've got some other stuff for you boys," said Lister, reaching out and pulling their pile of presents towards the twins as Kryten cleared away the dirty plates.

"For us?" said Jim and Bexley together, staring wide-eyed at the stack of gifts.

"It's all for you," said Lister, patting the top box.

"Except this one," said the Cat, yanking away the present closest to him. "This one is my gift to myself. Oh, I hope it's a new hairdryer!  
"Why do we get all of this stuff?" asked Jim curiously as Lister separated the gifts into two piles. He put the gifts intended for both of them in the middle.

"Because," said Lister, putting a present in front of Bexley. "It's our way of showing you how much you boys mean to us. Go on, open them up!"

As children always seem to do, Jim and Bexley both reached for their biggest presents first—two parcels big enough to hold a television. They each eagerly ripped off the paper, and ripped open the top of the box. They peered inside anxiously, only to find another slightly smaller box.

They all looked bewildered. "Those ones are from me," the Cat proudly exclaimed.

Jim and Bexley opened these boxes too, only to find another even smaller box. They laughed in amusement and went along with the game. After they had each unwrapped at least seventeen boxes and everyone excluding Cat was growing weary of the game, they finally got to the actual presents at box number eighteen.

They held up their treasures from Cat that they had to go through so much trouble just to get to. Jim held up the silver marble that he had nearly choked on as a toddler, and Bexley held up one of the Cat's skeletal fish earrings.

"I hope you like them!" exclaimed the Cat happily. "Because I sure don't!"

Jim and Bexley turned their presents over and over in their hands, admiring them from every angle, enthralled by their—shininess.

"What do you say to Cat, boys?" Lister prompted.

"Thanks, Cat!" exclaimed Jim and Bexley together.

Jim and Bexley picked up the next parcels. "That's from me," said Kryten. "I don't have many items in my possession, but I hope that it will please you, sirs."

The twins tore open the packages to reveal socks, socks, and more laundered socks.

"There's enough clean socks there to last you a lifetime," said Kryten.

"Thanks, Kryten," the boys chorused, sticking their hands curiously into the socks as though they were mittens.

"The next ones are from me," said Rimmer. "Don't mind the poor wrapping job. I had to have the skutters do it for me."

Jim and Bexley ripped off the lopsided striped wrapping paper which didn't fully cover the box. Rimmer's gifts were two copies of the same book, entitled _So You Want To Be A Space Corp Officer?_

"For when you learn to read," Rimmer explained. "I think that if you boys put your minds to it you may actually amount to something someday."

Lister scowled at Rimmer as Jim and Bexley idly flipped through the pages of the book, staring at the jumble of unfamiliar symbols that were letters. When they realized that the books contained no pictures, they lost interest and tossed them carelessly aside.

There were two boxes left on the table. Jim and Bexley each reached for one package. Lister put out his hand to stop them.

"This bigger one here is from me," said Lister, lifting up the larger, rectangular box. "But I want you to wait until later to open it."

"Why?" asked Jim and Bexley curiously, cocking their heads to one side.

"Open the smaller one first," said Lister in a low voice, knowing he wasn't completely answering their question. "Holly made it."

"Took me ions," said Holly proudly.

"What doesn't?" Rimmer muttered.

"Open it," said Lister, his face set.

In one swift motion, Jim and Bexley each tore at one side of the wrapping so that it came clean off in two neat sections. A square orange box sat before them. There was a green 'START' button and a red 'STOP' button situated atop the remedial control panel atop the box. On the front of the box, in large capital stencil letters were the words HOLLY HOP DRIVE.

Jim and Bexley stared at the box for several silent moments, looking at it from all sides, an unfamiliar sense of foreboding settling uneasily in their stomachs.

"What does it do?" said Bexley at last.

Lister couldn't bring himself to look at his sons when he spoke, but instead stared determinedly at the Holly Hop Drive. "Push the green button and you'll see."

Their hands clapped over each other as they pressed upon the green start button.

**AN: This is the longest chapter to date…20 pages by my count. There will be two more chapters after this. One is to deal with farewells and the other to round the story off. Hope you liked this one—I thought it was fun. I love how unrestricted Better Than Life is. But sci-fi is generally a very open genre. This story proves that anything's possible in sci-fi. Oh, the probabilities. The Infinite Improbability Drive for instance. Is anyone else a **_**Hitchhiker **_**fan? Douglas Adams is a genius. My favorite line from the first book is "Ford—you're turning into a penguin. Stop it." Or something like that. And the alien who wants to insult anyone who ever lived, "Arthur Dent, you're a jerk." I love Zaphod and Marvin as well. I'm getting off topic, though. Be prepared for more solemnity in the parallel universe in the next update. In my opinion, things will be starting to get rather sad, people.**

**kellyofsmeg**


	28. Back To The Parallel Universe

**Day 11, Part 4**

The twins stared around the unchanged room. Everything looked normal to them.

"Nothing happened," said Bexley in disappointment.

"It's broken," said Jim, tapping on the box.

"I'll make it work," said Bexley, picking up the Holly Hop Drive and shaking it up and down.

"Holly," Lister called, his face in his hands.

"Wait," said Holly. She disappeared from the monitor for a moment. "No, it did work. I entered all of the coordinates correctly."

"You'd better hope you entered the coordinates correctly," said Rimmer sharply. "It's not like we have a lot of T-I-M-E if you know what I mean."

"No—I think I've got it," said Holly, a satisfied grin playing on her face. "Because their online computer is trying to contact us."

"Really?" said Lister, finally looking up. "Well, put her on."

"Right," said Holly, unable to suppress her excitement at possibly seeing Hilly again.

"Hey, dudes," said a male Hilly as he flipped onto the monitor. "What's going down? Nice to see you all again. Hello, Holly. You're looking good."

"Hello," Holly giggled, blushing. "You're looking pretty sharp yourself, Hilly. That's a face meant for the gods, that is."

Rimmer stuck his finger down his throat and made a gagging sound.

"So you had a sex change too, Hilly?" said Lister, eyeing the new male Holly, identical to their old Holly, with amusement.

"Yeah," said Hilly, nodding. "I'll tell you—I haven't heard the end of it from Deb and Arlene. They've got nothing else to entertain them, really."

"I say you're both nuts," said the Cat, jerking his thumb towards Hilly and Holly.

"How's Deb doing, then?" asked Lister, moving closer to the monitor.

"Oh, she's fine," said Hilly casually. "Same as ever. Except she's been quite anxious about you, Dave."

"Really?" said Lister in surprise. "So it wasn't really all 'wham, bam, thank you, mister,' then?"

"No," said Holly. "She's felt rather guilty about it since you blokes left. And Arlene won't let her forget about it for more than half a minute at a time."

"It wasn't too much different here," said Lister, nodding towards Rimmer

"Oy, is that them there then or did you have an accident with a cloning device?" said Hilly.

Lister moved to stand behind the twins, who were playing with the shiny things Cat had given them. "These are my twin sons, Jim and Bexley."

Jim and Bexley glanced up at Hilly briefly and waved.

"Well I'll be," said Hilly, his eyebrows raising. "How'd that happen?"

"Growth anomalies as a result of being in a separate universe from their conception," Kryten explained.

"Oh," said Hilly. "I see. Kind of like that movie _Jack. _Just come over and we'll sort it all out._"_

"Where are going?" asked Bexley, as the Red Dwarf crew stepped out of the Starbug and into the airlocks on the Red Dwarf from the parallel universe.

"We're just going on a little trip," Lister lied with great difficulty.

"I don't get it," said Jim, as they approached the doors. "It looks just like our Red Dwarf…"

"That's because it is," said the Cat. "Well, sort of. Things are weird over here."

The airlock doors opened and the six of them clambered through the doorway. The air hatch closed tightly behind them, sealing them in. Rimmer suddenly looked quite claustrophobic.

Jim and Bexley stared around the corridor identical to the one they had just left on their Red Dwarf. "Everything's the same…"

"Are you sure we left our ship, dad?" asked Jim.

"Dave? Is that you?"

Lister and the others whipped around. Deb Lister and Arlene Rimmer had just came out of a side door in the corridor. Deb was dressed in her sleeping clothes—a pair of boxers and a curry-stained t-shirt. Her eyes were hooded and she looked tired, and she was holding a can of wicked strength lager in one hand and had a cigarette protruding from her ear.

Arlene came around from behind Deb, wearing her light blue ship-issued pajamas with 'Home Sweet Home' embroidered on the breast pocket. They were dressed exactly like Dave and Arnold, down to Lister's last custard stain.

Deb strode towards Lister and came to a stop right in front of him. Her eyes flicked over him from head to toe, lingering slightly longer over his stomach. "Dave—how are you?"

"I'm alright," Lister answered casually, as Deb flung her arms around his neck, slopping lager all over the two of them. He hugged her back, awkwardly patting her on the back.

"Hello, Arnold," said Arlene pleasantly. "It's nice seeing you again."

"Um, hello," Rimmer squeaked, moving to stand behind Kryten.

As Deb embraced Lister, she said expectantly, "So? Are you?"

"I was," said Lister.

"Was?" said Deb uncertainly. "What do you mean, 'was'?"

"See for yourself," said Lister, turning his head and nodding behind him.

Deb caught sight of the twins standing behind Lister and released him, stepping back in alarm.

"W-what's going on?" she stammered.

Lister put his arms around Jim and Bexley's shoulders. "Deb, I'd like to introduce you to my—I mean our twin sons, Jim and Bexley."

Deb looked shocked and didn't speak for several moments. Her eyes were wide and she looked as though she'd just been hit by a ton of bricks.

"Jim—Bexley—I'd like you to meet Deb. I guess she would be your, em... your father."

As they had seen in the café in Better Than Life, Jim and Bexley held out their hands. Deb shook their hands in turn, still looking sufficiently numb with disbelief. "Jim and Bexley?"

"Yeah," Lister explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know—like Jim Bexley Speed. I always wanted to name my sons after him."

"Isn't that the footballer you're always going on about, Deb?" said Arlene, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Isn't there a picture of you with her on your wall?"

"Yeah," said Deb. "Only here it's Jan Becky Speed. I always wanted to name my first daughter Jan and by second daughter Becky."

"Really?" said Lister curiously. If he had thought about it he would have known that even in this parallel universe Deb would have these similarities with him.

"Twins," said Deb. It was all too much for her. When she had heard from Hilly that Dave, Arnold, Cat, and their new android were coming on board, she had expected them to just be coming for a visit. She had expected Dave to possibly be nearly two weeks pregnant, not introducing her to her twin sons who looked to already be of age.

"But—how?" said Deb wildly, pointing from Lister to Jim and Bexley and back again. "I don't understand!"

"I'll explain later," Lister whispered in her ear, and Deb nodded slowly.

"Four Listers," Arlene muttered out of the corner of her mouth to Rimmer. "And I thought one was too many."

"I know," Rimmer said. "They're the ultimate unconventional nuclear family."

"What's in the box?" asked Deb curiously, pointing at the present that Lister had set against the wall.

"You know, stuff. Where's the Dog?" said Lister, looking around.

"Cargo decks again, I think," said Deb. She decided to make friendly gesture towards her new sons. "Jim, Bexley, how about I show you around—you can see what's different here."

"That's a great idea," said Lister, picking up the box he had brought for Jim and Bexley.

"What about us?" asked Rimmer.

Deb shrugged. "Do what you want. You lot can go to the disco and we'll catch up with you later."

"Sounds good to me," said Arlene, staring at Rimmer, who edged away from her uncomfortably.

…

"It's amazing how much they look like us," said Deb, taking a sip of her lager as they stepped into the sleeping quarters.

"It is, isn't it?" Lister agreed, looking at Jim and Bexley fondly.

"So, these are our new sleeping quarters," said Deb, gesturing widely around the room. "Me and Rimmer thought that the other quarters were too cramped."

"So did we," said Lister. "We moved out to have more room for when the twins came. So, what else have you been up to over here?"

Deb leaned against the bunks and Lister stood beside her. Jim and Bexley curiously opened up Deb's storage locker expecting to see pictures of Marilyn Monroe. They were greeted instead by pictures of James Dean and other shirtless males. They slammed the doors shut quickly, looking deeply perturbed.

"Honestly—I've been worrying about you mostly," said Deb. "Rimmer wouldn't let me forget about it for more than two seconds at a time."

"Me too," said Lister, watching the boys tap at the goldfish tank.

"Oh, and Hilly had a sex change operation four days after you left. Now she looks like your Holly because she claims that she had fallen madly in love with him or something, so much that she wanted to be him."

"Yeah, I saw," said Lister. "It's the same with our Holly. She told me the other day that blondes really do have more fun."

"Totally computer senile," said Deb, tilting her head back and chugging the last few sips of her lager.

"You're telling me," said Lister, shaking his head. "I think she's lost at least half her IQ points since leaving Hilly."

"I wouldn't doubt that," said Deb. "So you have a new android too?"

"Yeah, his name's Kryten," said Lister. "He's a Series 4000. We first rescued him from the Nova 5 a few months back."

"So did we," said Deb. "Krytel's her name. I taught her to rebel against Rimmer. Then she took off with my space bike to look for a planet where she could grow a garden. We found her and the bike around a week ago, totally trashed on some asteroid. It took me days to repair her. I had to get a new head for her and everything. I hardly slept at all until I was done. What about you?"

"It was pretty much the same for us," said Lister. "The main difference is that I was in a hurry to fix him up so I wouldn't have to have the skutters help with the birth. I actually finished the job late at night, around two hours before the delivery."

"Oh, sorry man," Deb said sympathetically. "That sounds brutal…"

Deb belched the first three bars of Yankee Doodle Dandy loudly, crushing the lager can in her fist. "Twins," Deb said again, shaking her head. "That's rough, man. Rimmer kept giving me guilt trips, you know. You know how Rimmer always comes up with worst case scenarios. We didn't know if you were actually pregnant or not, but Arleen was certain of it. It's funny—she offhandedly mentioned that you were probably having twins. It think this is the first time she's ever been right about something. She even sent some smegging hologramatic book on pregnancy over to Holly."

"I know," said Lister bitterly. "Rimmer never put it down. He literally followed me around quoting bits of it."

Deb moved towards the storage locker and opened the doors. She reached inside for another lager. Turning to Lister, she asked, "Do you want one?"

"No thanks, I'd better not," said Lister, who wasn't keen on a repeat of what had happened last time he was here.

"What about the boys?"

"None for them yet," said Lister. "I'm not sure if they can handle it quite yet. Give them some time. Their physical age may be eighteen, but their chronological age is still only three days."

"So, are you going to explain all of this to me now, then?" said Deb, opening the lager and climbing up into her bunk.

Lister sank into the bunk next to Deb and made room for Jim and Bexley to sit with them. Lister felt quite peculiar in that instant, not uncomfortable, but strange. He was sitting with a female version of himself in a different version of his own bed, with their two children. This was the closest thing to a family he knew that he was ever going to have. And he knew that it wasn't going to last long. They'd go on being a family without him.

Lister swallowed with difficulty and tried to compose himself for their sake. "When we got back," he started, his throat painfully tight. "I took a pregnancy test. It came out positive, of course. The guys gave me a really rough time about it. I even had to take these hormone shots because my body wouldn't be able to sustain a pregnancy outside your universe. I didn't feel normal on the first day. Everything set me off. By day two I was having morning sickness and all these different symptoms. Day three was rough, and by the time day four rolled around I was already showing."

Deb looked baffled, and Lister went on, "Holly figured it out. It turns out that each day was like the equivalent of a month."

"Why?"

"Holly said that it was because the twins were conceived in a parallel universe they had an increased ageing process because of differences in physical laws or something," said Lister, rubbing his brow.

"So, how long did your pregnancy last, then?" asked Deb, looking at Jim and Bexley in interest.

"Nine days," said Lister quietly.

"_Nine days?" _Deb yelped. "Oh man, I'm sorry, Dave. That must've been really tough. I'm not sure which is worse—the full term or nine days. That had to be confusing."

"It was really hard to handle all of the changes happening all at once," Lister agreed.

"So, what about the birth, then?" asked Deb curiously. "I mean—how did you do it over there if you don't mind me asking?"

"I went into labor in the middle of the night," Lister explained. "They took me to the medical unit and Kryten and the skutters did a caesarean section."

"Really?" said Deb, her eyebrows raising. "You let the _skutters_ do a caesarean section on you?"

"I didn't want to let them," Lister assured her. "But I didn't really have much of a choice, did I? And Kryten helped out a lot, so everything turned out okay."

"Did it hurt?"

"Did it hurt?" Lister repeated, laughing derisively. "It hurt even more than pulling out every one of your nostril hairs one by one with a pair of salad tongs."

"So you didn't go natural, then?" Deb smirked.

"I don't even want to know what you consider natural," said Lister firmly. "I've dealt with enough weird smeg in the past week to last me a lifetime."

"Do you mind showing me?" asked Deb, nodding at his stomach.

"What? Where it was done?" asked Lister incredulously. "Do you want proof or something?"

"No," said Deb quickly. "I'm just curious, that's all."

Lister leaned back against the wall and carefully rolled up his shirt, being careful not to touch the incision. Deb recoiled slightly. "Smegging hell…"

"Oh, put that thing away!" Cat screeched, appearing in the doorway and shielding his eyes. "That thing's more hideous than wearing tube socks with orthopedic sandals!"

"What do you want, Cat?" said Lister, letting his shirt fall back down.

"I just came to see if any of you want to go to the disco," said Cat. "The Grand-Canyon Nostrils and the ice cube heads duos just aren't cutting it for company if you know what I mean. And the Dog's not any better."

"Sure, we'll come," said Deb, as she, Lister, Jim, and Bexley jumped down from the bunk and followed Cat out of the room.

"Are they always this quiet?" whispered Deb to Lister. "I don't think I've heard them say a word since you got here. They can talk, can't they?"

"Sure they can," said Lister. "You'll see—they're full of questions. They're probably just being a bit shy or something."

Lister put his arms around Jim and Bexley as they walked. "Are you boys okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay," said Jim and Bexley together, a little too quickly in Lister's opinion.

…

Lister felt a strong sense of deja-vu when they stepped into the disco room with Deb, Jim, and Bexley. The room was lit up from rainbow colored beams of light pouring from the ceiling and metallic flashes from the disco ball. A catchy pop tune was thumping out through the speakers. The Dog was standing in the corner where Cat had left him, scratching furiously at his flea-infested head. Kryten and his female opposite, Krytel, were sitting together, conversing politely. Rimmer was sitting beside Arlene at one of the round tables, looking a good deal more than uncomfortable. He was casting his eyes wildly about for any opportunity to escape.

"Listy!" cried Rimmer frantically when he caught sight of them. "Care to join us?"

Arlene was trying to play footsy with him under the table. Rimmer was attempting to get his feet as far away as possible from his female opposite, so that he was tilting precariously in his chair, his knees jutting out at a weird angle as his feet tried to make a wild escape that the rest of his body was pleading to join in on.

Lister and Deb joined Rimmer and Arlene at the table. Jim and Bexley had made to follow them when they were bombarded by the Dog, who was eager to greet the new arrivals and see if they were up for a game of fetch. Jim and Bexley delightedly took turns throwing a metal bar across the room for him, and had fits of laughter every time Dog scrambled off after the bar, bringing it back to them in his mouth and dropping the slobbery bar at their feet repeatedly. The others watched with amusement.

"So, which one is the evil twin?" asked Deb jokingly.

"Neither. They're great kids," said Lister affectionately, as he watched Jim throw the metal bar, accidentally hitting the drinks bar and sending several glass mugs flying, smashing to a million pieces on the floor. "Oops!"

Jim looked guiltily towards their table, hopeful that his parents hadn't seen the accident.

"It's alright, Jim," Lister called.

"Krytel won't mind cleaning up the mess," said Deb, waving a hand dismissively.

"It would be my pleasure, ma'am," said Krytel, advancing towards the shards of glass with a small hand broom and dustbin. The only real differences between Kryten and Krytel was that Krytel's face was still angular and pointed, but her features were more feminine. The only other noticeable difference was in the breastplate. If Kryten's torso was more like action man, Krytel's was like a pointed Barbie doll's.

"Here, let me help you," said Kryten generously, getting down on his robotic knees and holding the dustbin while Krytel swept the shards of glass into it.

"So," said Arlene. "How long do you plan on staying this time?"

"Well," said Lister heavily, shifting in his chair. "Me, Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten are only staying for a few hours. Holly says that we've got a pretty small timeframe to be here before your dimension seals itself off from ours. If we don't leave before then we'll never be able to get back. We won't be staying long."

"And the boys?" said Deb, her brow furrowing as she realized he hadn't mentioned them just then.

Lister took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "We have to leave them here."

"_What_?" said Deb and Arlene uncertainly. This was the last thing that either of them had expected Lister to say.

"Why? Don't you want them?" said Deb, leaning forward in her chair.

"Of course I do!" cried Lister. "But they can't stay with us any longer."

"Why can't they?" said Arlene sharply. "Is there something wrong with them so that you want to pawn them off on us?"

"No! They're eighteen right now, right?" Lister explained. "But they're really only three days old. In our universe, because of something to do with physical anomalies between our two universes, they have accelerated growth rates."

"What do you mean?" asked Arlene, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward intently.

"We figure that they age a full year every four hours," said Rimmer. "That's six years for every day they stay with us."

"And there's nothing we can do to stop it," said Lister. "We had Holly check out every possibility. Our only option was to bring them here, hoping that they would age at a normal rate here. They deserve a shot at some sort of a normal life. If we had kept them in our universe, they would have been dead within two weeks."

Deb nodded slowly, thoughtfully taking in everything she had just heard as she drew a long sip from her can of wicked strength lager.

"I don't want to do this," said Lister, speaking into his chest. "But I have to if I'm going to save their lives."

Rimmer glanced at his wristwatch as he got to his feet. "So, with that said, I say that it's time to say toodle-pipski before we—"

"Ey, not so fast," said Lister. "I want to at least stay long enough to be sure that it's worked, that their ageing has slowed down. At least another couple of hours."

Rimmer sat back down slowly, determinedly not looking at Arlene, who was trying to catch his eye. He swatted her hand off his thigh.

"I don't think that you should accept this so readily, Lister," said Arlene to Deb. "I think you should demand a paternity test first."

_"What?" _Lister yelped, sounding offended. "Whose else could they be?"

"You should just feel lucky that he's not asking for eighteen years worth of child support," said Rimmer.

"Umm, guys—would you mind if I had a word with Deb?" said Lister.

"No, of course not," said Arlene, as she tried again to grope Rimmer's leg.

"Alone," said Lister significantly.

"Of course we don't mind," said Rimmer gleefully, leaping out of his chair as though he'd been sitting on a porcupine that was in turn sitting on a tack. Arlene stood as well, eyeing Rimmer lustfully.

"Listy…" Rimmer squeaked into Lister's ear. "Don't leave me alone with her, I'm begging you. Come and find me when we're getting ready to leave. I'll come out when I hear you say the code."

"What code?"

" 'The weasel flies at midnight,'" Rimmer hissed into Lister's ear. "Then I'll come out from my ingenious hiding place once I know it's safe—"

"Rimmer, I need to talk to Deb. Just give me 'alf a mo," said Lister impatiently.

"But…"

"Go," said Lister loudly.

Rimmer looked around in panic. "Selfish bastard," he muttered, as he scurried off, with Arlene in hot pursuit.

Lister turned full around in his chair to face Deb. "Do you think you can handle all of this?"

Deb shrugged. "Honestly, I'm still kind of in shock here—you turn up from another dimension and all of a sudden I have two sons and they're both already eighteen. I'm suddenly a father, for smeg's sake! I think that maybe once it sinks in a bit…"

Deb trailed off, lost in her thoughts. She ran her fingers through her locks, chewing on the end of her favorite one. "It's all still new," she finally said as Lister listened patiently. "But I'll do it. They are my sons…"

Lister didn't say anything, solemnly twisting one of his locks around his finger.

Deb stared into her empty can of lager. "You obviously know the boys better than I do—I mean, you're the one who's been with them. I've been told before that boys are more difficult to raise than girls, more pessimistic, sensitive, and secretive, like. I don't know the first thing about being a parent. Got any advice?"

"For raising boys?" said Lister slowly. "I'm not going to pretend that I know anything or have all the answers from three days. I honestly don't have all that much experience…"

"You have more than I do," Deb pointed out.

"That's true," Lister agreed. "Advice….let's see… you can always park nearer than you think. Don't go to Sweden. Avoid sprouts at all costs. Tell the boys to never chop up hot chilies and then go for a leak without washing their hands first. It feels like a bomb's just gone off in your pants."

Deb smiled. "Anything else?"

"There's still a lot of work to with them, you know," Lister cautioned. "I've only got to be with them for three days. I didn't get to teach them all of the things that I wanted to. I told them about how I got aboard Red Dwarf. I'm sure our versions can't be too much different, but it would probably still be a good idea for you to tell them your version because of the gender differences here. They're used to being the dominant sex, for one thing. I've taught them how to spell their names, but they don't know much else like that—they can't read or write or anything. There just wasn't enough time to show them those things, but you can. They love Rasta Billy Skank, Zero-Gee football and Mugs Murphy—"

"Have you shown them Francis Capra's _It's a Wonderful Life _starring Jane Stewart?"

"Yeah, I've shown them our version of it with Jimmy Stewart," said Lister. "They didn't get some parts but overall they loved it. Oh, they love chicken vindaloo just like we do. And sugar. They really like sweets. Just don't give them too much. I don't want them getting cavities, so make sure they brush their teeth. Oh, I gave them our version of the birds and the bees, you may want to fill them in with yours. They love Better Than Life, but make sure they don't become Game Heads. Oh, and make sure that they go to bed at some reasonable hour of the night. Just be sure that they stay out of trouble. Did you get all that?"

"I think so…" said Deb slowly, biting her lip and wishing that she had just written Dave had just said everything down. "I wasn't expecting any of this. This honestly isn't why I thought you came—far from it."

"Deb," said Lister seriously.

"What?"

Lister stared his opposite straight in the eyes. "I know damn well that we both like to bum around and have a good time. But please—_please—_promise me that you'll take care of them. Be there for them. For me—for both of us."

"Alright, Dave," said Deb, smiling sincerely. "I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise," Deb laughed. "Cross my heart."

"I'm serious, Deb," said Lister. "I'm not kidding around here. They mean everything to me now. They're all I've got in my miserable smegging existence—if anything were to happen to them—"

"Dave," said Deb soothingly, placing her hand over his. "I understand. I really do. I promise that I'll look after them. I swear on me life."

"This isn't easy for me, you know," said Lister, rocking back and forth in his chair. Deb patted his back reassuringly. "I know…I know…"

"I haven't even told them yet," Lister said inaudibly.

"You haven't what?"

"Told them," said Lister. "I haven't told them."

"What?" said Deb, startled. "You haven't? Why not?"

"I was going to," Lister said. "But I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the heart. I couldn't bare to see the looks on their faces. Telling them would make it seem more final, more absolute before it even happened. I didn't want that weighing down on them. I wanted our time together to be happy."

Dave and Deb sat in comfortable silence, watching their children play fetch with the Dog. They were both thinking the same thing. When they had first met, they had each been the same person. They had lived identical lives up to that moment, but opposite lives at the same time. They had both been abandoned as babies. Dave had been raised by his step dad and grandma. Deb had been raised her by her step mom and grandpa. They had both worked for ten years as trolley attendants and had affairs with cashier number four. They had both dropped out of art college after only ninety-seven minutes. They both had unintentionally left Earth on their twenty-fifth birthdays in a drunken stupor and ended up on Mimas. They had both joined the Jupiter Mining Cooperation, becoming Third Technicians on Red Dwarf. They had both fallen madly in love and been dumped by Kristine or Kristopher Kochanski. They had both adopted a pet dog or cat and were put into stasis while the rest of the crew died in a radiation leak. Holly or Hilly had woken them both three million years later. Their lives had went off in different directions once they met nearly two weeks ago. They had been the same people when they met, but they both knew that they were different people now.

They'd had different experiences since they had parted. Their lives had diverged. Dave had become a mother—he had carried the twins to term. Deb had got to continue living the way she had before, while Lister had to deal with mood swings, appetite infatuations, and the loss of his curries, alcohol, and cigarettes. Plus he had given birth to them and had to deal with the painful after-effects of the operation. Even though he'd only had the twins three days ago, he had raised them to adulthood. Dave had been changed from these experiences. Deb hadn't been through any of the things Dave had, but now she was learning that she was a father and realizing everything that he had been through. And now it would be her job to watch out for them. Maybe they weren't really the same people anymore after all.

Deb finally broke the silence. "When are you going to tell them?"

"I'll have to do it soon," said Lister solemnly. "I'll tell them sometime before we leave. It's not going to be easy for me, though."

"I know it's not," said Deb in understanding. "But they have to know."

…

Lister became increasingly more silent and gloomy as the hours of their visit ticked on. Whenever someone tried to speak to him, Lister appeared far off and took several seconds to register that someone had spoken to him. When he did, his answers were curt and distracted.

"Sir, don't make this any harder on yourself than you have to," Kryten had cautioned him.

Lister's plan had been to stay for at least four hours—long enough to be sure that Jim and Bexley's ageing process had indeed slowed to a normal rate now that they were in the universe of their origin. He wanted them to get comfortable and familiar with Deb, Arlene, Dog, and Krytel, who they would be spending the remainder of their lives with. He wanted them to settle in somewhat before he and the others used the Hop Drive to return to their own universe, leaving Jim and Bexley behind. For good.

It was the middle of the night, yet Lister was wide-awake and tense. His muscles were tight. He couldn't help the anxious tremors that started in his brain, tingling down his spine and coursing through every nerve in his body, freezing him down to the marrow in his bones and causing his muscles to spasm. He was filled with a cold sense of dread, and once again, time was his worst enemy.

The others were scattered around the ship. Kryten had cordially offered to assist Krytel in getting a head start on tomorrow's laundry. Rimmer was spinelessly hiding in some unknown location of the ship, and Arlene was looking for him. Since cowardly minds think alike, Arlene was able to find him in no time, crouched pathetically behind a crate of pickled asparagus in the cargo decks. They were now sitting at a table in the corner, making awkward small talk. Rimmer was sitting as far as he possibly could from Arlene, so that he was getting too friendly with the rubber plant in the corner. The Dog had really taken a liking to Jim and Bexley. All of the others claimed that they were too busy or too mature to ever waste their time playing fetch with him. Cat had claimed that it was high time for a cat nap, and had wandered off to sleep on top of one of the storage lockers, reminding the others to wake him up when it was time to go. Neither Hilly nor Holly were responding to any of their summons. All Lister knew was what Holly had told him: they only had a small window of time in which to be here, and when they were here their ageing was hindered so much that it was practically at a stand-still.

"At first, I was trying not to get too attached to them, you know," said Lister soberly to Deb. "To make it easier when I had to leave them here."

"And how'd that work?" asked Deb, her chin cupped in her hands as she listened attentively to her male counterpart.

"It didn't," said Lister. "I guess the best way to describe it is like trying not to get attached to a puppy or a kitten or something. You just can't help it—they're so adorable. Jim and the Bexley were the same way. The night they were born—after they had been all cleaned up and Kryten handed them to me and I got to hold them for the first time—I couldn't help it. I was instantly in love with them."

Deb nodded slowly, watching Lister carefully.

"They were just so perfect, you know," Lister continued. "So perfect. I couldn't believe that I had made them."

Over at the next table, Arlene was trying to stick her tongue down Rimmer's ear. Rimmer leaped out of his seat in disgust. Was this really how he treated women?

"You're revolting!" he cried, wiping furiously at his ear.

"Can you blame me?" said Arlene defensively. "I haven't got any action in three million years. It's kind of difficult when you're dead, you know. And when men for some reason never want to go on a second date with you. The last sexual encounter I had was with Vaughn McGruder, one night, twelve minutes—"

"Including the time it took to eat the pizza," said Rimmer hastily. "I know, I know. I have a suggestion—why don't we have a nice, safe game of RISK like we did last time?"

"Alright," Deb nodded. "Sounds good to me. But don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're a boy. Hilly, can we get a game of RISK?"

The hologramatic board game that both Rimmer's loved appeared on the table in front of them. "Thank you, Hilly," said Arlene. She bushed the board towards Rimmer. "Gentlemen first."

Jim, Bexley, and the Dog strode up to Deb and Dave's table. Lister pulled up two chairs for Jim and Bexley, the Dog was content with sitting on the floor and scratching at his fleas with his foot.

"Wow, I'll tell you something," said the Dog enthusiastically. "These boys here are great! "

"I know," said Lister gloomily.

"Oh, can I keep them? Oh please, oh please?" the Dog begged.

Deb and Lister looked sideways at each other, but neither of them responded to the Dog.

Lister turned to the twins. "So, how are you liking it here?"

"It looks just like our Red Dwarf," said Jim. "Except the skutters are pink here."

"The Dog's fun," said Bexley. "Do you have vindaloo here?"

"Loads of it," said Deb. "We have curry night…oh, just about every night."

"And game nights and movie nights once a week," said the Dog. "But they never do what I want to—every week I say we should watch _Lassie _or _Rin Tin Tin, _and play how dirty can you get in thirty seconds—but we never do what I want to."

"That's because none of us are too keen to sniff each other," said Deb. "That's your idea of a good time."

Jim and Bexley both yawned widely. "Are you tired, boys?" asked Deb.

The twins nodded, and rested their foreheads against the table. Lister massaged their backs. "We'd better be leaving soon and let them get some rest."

"You're probably right," said Deb. "Hilly?"

Holly and Hilly appeared on the screen. This time it was Hilly's face that was showered with 'computer rashes.'

"What is it?" said Hilly. "We were right in the middle of something!"

"We can see that," said Deb.

"How long have been here, Hol?" said Lister.

"Just over four hours, Dave," said Holly.

"Will you be able to tell if it's worked?" asked Lister.

"Yeah, we should be able to," said Hilly. "You just need to go to the medical unit so we can do a physical scan."

"Alright," said Lister, as he and Deb got to their feet and gently roused the twins so that they sleepily rose as well. "We'll go get Rimmer and Rimmer and find the Cat and meet you two in the medical unit."

"Sounds good," said Hilly. "That should buy us some more time, Holly. Your monitor or mine?"

…

"Just lay down on these beds, here," said Lister, guiding Jim and Bexley over to the medi-scan. The boys each gratefully took a bed, eager to get some sleep.

"Do we have to do anything?" asked Jim.

"No," said Deb. "Just lie completely still."

"How long is this going to take?" asked the Cat impatiently. "I haven't got to deep condition my hair for ten hours now!"

"It won't take long," said Hilly. "Initializing full medical scan now."

A thin green bar with a neon green line raised up from behind the beds and came to rest right above Jim and Bexley's field of vision. Their eyes widened in alarm as the light shone straight into their eyes, the brightness of it blinding them.

"It's okay," said Lister soothingly. "It'll only last a few seconds."

The bar began to whir. It mechanically glided down their bodies, stopping at their toes and sliding back up to the tops of their heads. The bar then retracted, folding in on itself, and sank back behind the bed. A long report sheet printed out the side of each medi-scan. Lister reached out and tore off one report, and Deb seized the other.

Lister's eyes skimmed over the page until he found what he was looking for. "Jim's chronological age—three days. Physical age—eighteen."

"Bexley's says he's chronologically three days and physically eighteen as well," Deb read. She looked up at Lister. "It's worked."

"What's worked?" asked Bexley curiously.

"I suggest that we head down to the air locks," said Kryten. "The _Mr._ Lister's can join us later."

"Good idea," said Deb, as they all shuffled towards the doors. "Good luck, Dave."

"We'll see you soon, I guess," said Rimmer, pausing in the doorway. He gave Lister the full Rimmer salute before marching out after Deb. Arlene followed him, walking too close to him for comfort, and Cat and Dog followed. Krytel and Kryten brought up the rear. Kryten's bottom lip trembled slightly as he tried to smile at Lister, and then closed the door behind him.

Lister took a deep, despairing breath and he tried to settle his nerves somewhat before he spoke. His brain felt fuzzy and dazed. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew that it had to be done. He had to tell them now or never.

"Boys, there's something I've been needing to tell you," said Lister heavily.

"What is it?" asked Jim sleepily, turning his head to look at Lister. But Lister wasn't able to meet his eyes.

Perhaps it was best to just get it over with—to put it out in the open and work from there. He felt a burning sensation rising in his throat. _Just tell them, _his mind screamed. _Do it._

"You're not coming back with us," Lister said at last, looking at the floor.

"What?" Jim and Bexley sat up, swinging their legs over the sides of their beds. Lister hated the way they were looking at him—their eyes wide and panicked, in shock and numb disbelief. Emotions that he had experienced so frequently ever since they had entered into his life.

"Why? Did we do something wrong? Were we bad?" asked Bexley, his eyes wide with fear.

"No!" Lister exclaimed. "You didn't do anything wrong. And you're not bad, you're the best kids I've ever known!"

"Don't you want us to come back with you?" asked Jim, hurt evident in his voice. "Don't you want us?"

"Of course I do!" Lister assured them. "It's not like that at all, boys. I want nothing more than for you to come back with us. There's no other way. Believe me, sons, we've looked. This is the only way to save your lives."

"What do you mean?" asked Jim in alarm, staring at Bexley. "Save our lives?"

"This is where you're meant to be," Lister tried to explain. "Here with Deb, Arlene, Dog, and Krytel. This is where you came from. In our universe—mine, Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten's universe—where you were born—isn't where you belong."

"What do you mean?" asked Bexley.

"After you were born," Lister swallowed the lump that was rising in his throat. "We discovered that you were ageing faster than you were supposed to. A whole year in four hours. Now, three days later, you're both eighteen years old. If you had stayed there even another day, you would have been the same age as me. If you had stayed two more weeks you would have died. The only way to slow your ageing down to a normal rate was to bring you back here. It's the only fair thing to do for you—the only way to save your lives."

To put it simply, Jim and Bexley were crushed. They didn't know what to say. They didn't know what to do. They didn't know what to feel. Their young lives had been so tragic and confusing so far that Lister truly felt like a heartless monster for what he was putting these two fragile, innocent boys through. But he knew that in the end it would be the best thing for them, even if it necessarily wasn't the best thing for him personally. He knew he couldn't be selfish. He had to think about what was best for Jim and Bexley, even if it tore him up inside.

Jim and Bexley decided on how they felt. They got to their feet and stood in front of Lister.

"We don't want to stay," Jim protested.

"We want to be with you," said Bexley.

Lister embraced Jim and Bexley. He was deeply touched by their words, but he knew what he had to do. He couldn't get their hopes up. He'd have to hold his ground.

"You can't come back with us," said Lister, hating himself. "This is where you belong. It's not so bad here—you'll get used to it. It's pretty much the same Red Dwarf. There's only a few differences. And me and the others will still be with you, just different versions of us. You'll still have all of us. You probably won't even notice the difference."

Lister knew he had lied about the last part, but he was trying to make it seem like there was a bright side to all of this on such a dark, murky situation.

"It's not the same," cried Jim, tears now welling in the corners of his eyes.

"Can't you stay here with us?" asked Bexley hopefully, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve.

"I wish that I could," said Lister, feeling the corners of his eyes starting to burn as well. "This isn't where I belong."

Jim and Bexley stared at their feet. "I couldn't tell you earlier," Lister explained, his voice trembling. "I didn't want it to ruin our time together."

Jim and Bexley continued to stare at the floor. "Hey," said Lister, lifting their chins up to look at him. "Everything will be okay. It's all new, but it's all the same, too. You'll get used to it in time. We're all here, remember? I'll still be with you. Just give it some time—you'll be happy here. I promise."

Lister tried to smile weakly. He was aware it didn't look convincing. Lister hugged the two of them in hope of providing them some small amount of comfort. He tried to believe everything he was telling them and look happy for them. Inside he was miserable. "Okay?"

"Okay," said Jim and Bexley slowly, feeling equally miserable.

"Come on," said Lister, grabbing hold of their hands as he led them towards the airlocks. "The others are waiting."

…

Lister, Jim, and Bexley walked mournfully down to their airlocks, where they met with the others, who were all maintaining a state of reverent, respectful silence on behalf of Lister's situation.

Lister picked up the present for Jim and Bexley that he had left by the doors when they arrived. "I want you to open this now," he said, holding the box out for them.

Jim and Bexley supported the gift between both of their hands and ripped off the wrapping. They opened the top of the box. Inside they found clothes—all of Lister's favorite clothing including all of his London Jets and Mugs Murphy t-shirts, his Red Dwarf ship-issued jackets, his favorite leather deerstalker, Zero-G football tapes, some records by Rasta Billy Skank, a copy of _It's a Wonderful Life_, and two letters that he had written to them individually, so they could read them once they learned how.

"There's everything you'll need here," said Lister. "And some souvenirs from our universe—none of these things will be the same here."

"Thanks, dad," said Jim and Bexley quietly.

"We'd better be going, Listy," said Rimmer. "The rest of us have already said our goodbyes while you were gone."

"I know," said Lister. "Just give me another moment. Go on ahead."

"Are you sure, Mr. Lister?" said Kryten. "We don't mind waiting outside the doors."

"I'm sure," said Lister firmly. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you."

"Goodbye, all," said Rimmer, waving widely to the room. "See you. Goodbye Jim—Bexley."

Jim and Bexley nodded weakly at Rimmer and waved, looking sick to their stomachs. "Bye, smeghead."

"See ya," said the Cat. "Next time—our place!"

He turned and followed Rimmer through the airlocks towards Starbug.

"Goodbye, Mr. Jim and Mr. Bexley," sobbed Kryten as he left. "Oh, this is all too sad…"

"What?" said Dog excitedly. "They're staying? Does this mean I get to keep them?"

"Shut up, you insensitive flea-infested mutt," Arlene snapped.

"I suggest that we go now. This is obviously a private family matter," said Krytel, pulling Dog towards the side door. "Ms. Rimmer—"

"Bye, Arlene—Dog—Krytel," Lister said, as they exited out the side door, leaving him with Deb, Jim, and Bexley.

"I guess this is goodbye, boys," said Lister sadly.

He threw his arms around Jim and Bexley, squeezing them tightly. They stood there for several moments, sharing in one another's sorrow. He had promised himself that he wouldn't cry, that he would be strong for them. He should have known he'd never be able to do that. His throat had become constricted and he began to sob unashamedly.

"I just want you to know," Lister wept, still encircled in the three-way hug. "That you boys are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'll never forget you two."

"Will we ever see you again?" asked Bexley.

"I don't know," said Lister honestly. He saw the looks on their faces and quickly added, "I hope so."

"So do I," said Jim.

This was it. It was time to say goodbye. He had to let them go now. He kissed them both, tears streaming down his face.

Lister had carefully thought out the last words he would say to his sons, but his mind was now so hazy that he couldn't remember them exactly. He tried to recall the words. He spoke them softly now, not caring how they sounded to anyone else.

"Just remember that you'll always have each other. I love you."

Lister stepped back, wiping his red, wet eyes on his sleeve. He turned to Deb and hugged her tightly. "Take care of them. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Deb smiled slightly. "I don't think you have to worry about that."

Lister, Deb, Jim, and Bexley all embraced once more, for the last time. Lister headed for the airlocks, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. He paused and took one last look at Deb, standing a ways down the corridor, a comforting arm around both of his sons, none of them with dry eyes. Deb gave him a small sad wave.

As he stepped back into the airlocks, even though he couldn't hear them, he saw his son's lips form the last words he had shared with them back at him.

Biting his lip, Lister violently pounded his fist on the wall and the doors closed. He stumbled to the Starbug, and somehow found his way inside with the help of Cat and Kryten. Once he was safely inside Starbug, Kryten set Starbug on autopilot and they flew out of Red Dwarf.

Lister watched the Red Dwarf as they flew away, feeling blissfully numb so the pain couldn't penetrate yet. They had only just left the ship, and he already felt what he could only describe as a black hole inside him, a gaping chasm in his life where Jim and Bexley had been, and all those people in his life who had had loved and deserted him as well were included in this empty place inside of him. His parents whom he had never known, his step dad, his step mum, his grandma, Duncan and all his other mates back on Earth, his friends Chen, Selby, and Petersen, Lise Yates, Kristine Kochanski, and everyone else who had cared about who died in the radiation leak. All of these people, long gone, who he'd never see again. His sons were now among their number.

He dimly heard Holly say, "Engaging Holly Hop…Holly Hop engaged… five…four…three...one…blastoff!"

Lister watched as Red Dwarf disappeared before his very eyes and was replaced with the vastness of space, along with Deb, Arlene, Dog, Krytel, Jim and Bexley… they were gone. Forever.

Now the numbness faded. The pain penetrated. They were gone.

He sank against the wall, somehow too lost and sad to cry anymore. Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten respectfully left the cockpit and kept their distance from Lister while he grieved over the loss of his sons.

As Lister sat in Starbug, heading back towards their Red Dwarf in their dimension, he watched the stars in the infinity of the universe pass him by. Space was so empty, really. So dead. Lister had a very odd sensation as he pondered the vast emptiness of space. Because space was even more empty now. And the emptiness of space filled him as well. Because, once again, as he sat in silence against the wall, Lister knew that he was once again the last human.

**AN: This is the part that I had been dreading and postponing since I started writing this story months ago. ****I hated sending off Jim and Bexley**. **Personally, I consider myself more of a comedy writer and this chap is very much drama. There is one more chapter after this as a conclusion which I will post tomorrow.**

**kellyofsmeg**


	29. Epilouge

**EPILOUGE**

Holly navigated Starbug back to the Red Dwarf docking bays with minimal amounts of damage to hull with its usual haphazard landing. Starbug glided to its place and lowered itself to the floor. Once the transport ship had safely landed, Kryten held out his hands to help Lister to his feet.

Lister was unresponsive to Kryten's gesture at first and it was a full minute before he realized that he was being offered assistance. Lister raised his arms limply to meet Kryten, who gently pulled Lister to his feet. As soon as Lister was standing, his knees buckled and his legs gave out under him. Kryten and Cat caught him under his arms and lifted him back up. Lister seemed incapable of mobility on his own free will, so Kryten and the Cat walked with Lister between them out of Starbug and into Red Dwarf, practically carrying Lister as his useless legs dragged behind him.

"Man, it's quiet in here now!" exclaimed the Cat as they hauled Lister through one of the long corridors.

"Mr. Cat!" Kryten cried, inclining his head slightly towards the unresponsive Lister. "Please—do try to be more sensitive."

Outside the sleeping quarters, Kryten and Cat paused to steady Lister, who was insisting that they let him walk on his own.

"Are you sure, sir?" said Kryten cautiously.

"Yeah," said Lister vaguely. "I want to be on me own for awhile."

Kryten and Cat released Lister, and he stumbled down the corridor and turned around the corner. Lister stopped suddenly. He didn't feel too good. He swayed where he stood. The corners of his vision became fuzzy as blackness closed in over his eyes. He felt his body folding in on itself as he crumpled to the floor. He was out cold from complications of his physical exhaustion and his crippling grief.

Lister blearily opened his eyes and saw a familiar white tiled ceiling above him. His head hurt. His back hurt. His eyes heart. His stomach hurt. His heart hurt. His whole body hurt. Even his big toe hurt.

_Where am I? _he meant to ask, but no words came out. He agonizingly turned his head to the left and saw that he had an IV to his arm and that he was also hooked up to a biofeedback computer. He was in the medical unit once again. He turned his head to the right and saw Kryten standing beside his bed. Kryten was wearing a stethoscope and was listening to his heartbeat. Kryten removed the stethoscope from around his neck and set it aside. Lister let his muscles stay limp and allowed Kryten to lift his left arm and slide a blood pressure monitor up his arm and fasten it. Kryten pressed a button on the monitor handset and he felt the monitor strap tighten until he could feel his heart pumping in his arm. After a few painful seconds the band loosened and the pain dispersed.

Kryten jumped when he realized that Lister was now awake and watching him intently.

"Oh, Mr. Lister!" Kryten exclaimed in relief. "You're awake! I was beginning to get a bit worried—you've been out for twelve hours! How are you feeling, sir?"

Lister didn't respond, but maintained a stony expression. He seemed to have misplaced his voice, as well as any function in his facial muscles.

"Of course you don't feel well," said Kryten sympathetically in Lister's silence. "But I would like to say that I am very proud of you, Mr. David. What you did was not easy. It was a selfless act, and I want you to know that I think you did the right thing."

Lister didn't even nod his head to acknowledge Kryten, who was becoming concerned that Lister might of somehow become paralyzed or lost function of his muscles from lack of use.

"If it's any consolation," said Kryten, who was now shining a small light into Lister's unblinking eyes. "I once heard a saying that I think holds great significance to your situation, sir. It goes something like this: 'If you truly love someone, you'll let them go.'"

Lister's expression remained vacant and dead.

Kryten realized that Lister must not be in the mood to talk, so he continued on with his one-sided conversation.

"I've hooked you up to the biofeedback computer," Kryten unnecessarily informed him as he bustled over to the computer and seized the data print-out. "The report tells me that the last few days have taken a serious toll on your physical well-being. You are severely dehydrated and have numerous vitamin and mineral deficiencies. I've got you hooked up to this IV to replenish your body with the fluids and nutrients that you need."

Lister remained stubbornly silent and unresponsive, staring unblinkingly at a place on the opposite wall.

"I was going to remove your staples today," Kryten continued. "As is the usual procedure to remove staples three days after surgery. But under the circumstances and judging by the looks of the incision, I thought it wise to leave them in at least another day. The wound doesn't look like it's completely sealed itself yet. But don't worry—under my care you'll be recovered and up and about in no time."

Lister still seemed as though he was in a vegetative state. "You're doing exactly what you should be doing, sir," Kryten continued. "You have greatly overexerted yourself the past couple of days. You need a few days of good solid rest to aid in your recovery."

Kryten went to the medical utility cabinet and came back with an oral thermometer. "Open," he instructed. Lister did nothing. Kryten carefully pulled down on Lister's chin until his mouth was open wide enough to insert the thermometer under his tongue.

"Now close," said Kryten, gently pushing Lister's chin up so his mouth closed.

"Here, let me fluff up your pillows, sir," said Kryten. "Sit up."

Lister robotically sat up in bed just enough for Kryten to lift the pillows out from behind him. Kryten plumped up the pillows and returned them. "Congratulations, sir! Your first movement in hours! You can sit back down now."

Lister laid back down, his head sinking in and imprinting its shape into the newly fluffed feather pillow.

The thermometer began to beep, signifying that it was done reading Lister's temperature. Kryten slid the thermometer out from between Lister's teeth and held it up to the light to read it.

"Hmm, thirty-seven point six degrees Celsius," said Kryten. "You have a bit of a fever, sir. Perhaps you will feel better after a nice glass of cold water. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Kryten bustled out of the room and returned a moment later with a glass of water. Lister didn't seem to notice that Kryten had left the room or returned for that matter.

Kryten gently pushed on Lister's back, forcing him to sit up. He tilted Lister's head back and pressed the glass of water to his lips, forcing him to take a sip.

Lister allowed a small amount of water into his mouth before he closed his lips firmly, causing the rest of the water to spill out over the rim of the cup, down the sides of his mouth and onto his bed sheets.

"You need more water than that, Mr. Lister!" said Kryten fussily. "You need to drink water—you are dehydrated! How can you ever expect to get better?"

Lister didn't want to get better. Not yet. He was content wallowing in his own misery and self-pity. He wanted to physically hurt as well as emotionally hurt. He didn't deserve to feel good yet. Maybe he needed someone to depend on, to wait on him hand and foot for the time being. He felt like it was his turn to be the child while someone else was a parent to him. This was his way of mourning.

…

"I cannot believe you just sat there and let them walk out on us_,"_ said Wilma.

"At least I can walk around the house in my underwear again!_"_ Fred exclaimed.

_He's watching The Flintstones again, _Rimmer thought bitterly as he marched towards the medical unit to check in on Lister for the tenth time that day. The man was such a child. He'd been having a non-stop _Flintstones _marathon for the last twenty-four hours. As soon as one tape was done, Lister would instruct Holly to put in another one. Rimmer swore that he would rather suffer a second painful death than hear "Yabba dabba doo!" one more time.

Lister hadn't even bothered to take his attention from the vid screen when Kryten had removed his staples that morning. Lister even left the show on at night. He claimed that it helped him sleep. But it didn't keep Lister from tossing and turning all night. It didn't stop his nightmares. He would wake himself up several times a night, either drenched in a cold sweat or with tears streaming down his face, sometimes he had both.

At least Lister was capable of speech today. Yesterday they had to try to understand some new form of sign language Lister had invented to communicate with them, that was mostly coordinated by blinking, snapping his fingers, pointing, or tugging on his earlobe.

Rimmer paused in the doorway with his hands akimbo and stared at Lister disdainfully.

Lister was sitting up in bed propped up by numerous pillows, his shadowed, bloodshot eyes fixed on the vid screen as though in a trance and he badly needed a shave. He was still hooked up to the biofeedback computer, which was constantly monitoring his vital stats. He had numerous IVS dispensing fluids into his bloodstream. Kryten insisted that Lister got the nutrients he needed through these tubes, because Lister refused any of the food Kryten brought him, or he would push the food around on his tray to make it look as though he had eaten something just to satisfy Kryten. He might have eaten if it was chicken vindaloo, but Kryten would only bring him foods that were high in vitamins and other nutrients that Lister considered only worthy to be used as pig slop.

No, what really bothered Rimmer about Lister right now was that he had a can of lager in one hand and a lit cigarette tucked in his ear for safekeeping, smoke clouding the air around his head.

"Lister!" exclaimed Rimmer, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Don't tell Kryten," mumbled Lister, taking a long draw from his cigarette, holding it in for a few seconds, and exhaling through his nostrils, the white smoke curling up into the air. He stuck the cigarette back in his ear and drank from his can of lager.

"Of course I'm going to tell Kryten!" Rimmer cried. "Lister, you know that you're not supposed to drink any alcohol while you're on your pain medication!"

"This is my pain medication," said Lister, tilting his head back and pouring lager into his mouth.

"And I thought that you'd given up on smoking!"

Lister shrugged, taking a long draw from his cigarette. "Obviously I didn't."

"It's only that I thought that maybe there was a change in you," said Rimmer. "You do know what those things to do you, don't you? You may as well be ingesting rat poison."

"I know," said Lister. "And to be quite honest, I don't care."

"I just thought that maybe you has actually started to care about the health of your body."

"Well, you were wrong," said Lister, tapping the end of his cigarette against the rim of a kidney bowl that he was using as a makeshift ashtray.

"You were able to go cold turkey for more than a week," said Rimmer. "You proved to yourself that you could do it. Why start again now?"

"I didn't quit for me," said Lister. "Right now, I honestly couldn't care less what happens to me."

"Listen to yourself!" said Rimmer. "Mr. Depression or what?"

Lister reached underneath his sheets and Rimmer knew that Lister was scratching at his incision again.

"Stop that!" Rimmer barked.

"I can't," said Lister miserably. "It itches."

"Absolutely pathetic," tutted Rimmer. "You're going to have to talk about it sooner or later, Listy. You need closure. No one who ever lived has been through everything you have—it's like you lived eighteen years and nine months of your life in less than two weeks. You won't feel better until you talk to someone about it!"

"You wouldn't understand," said Lister quietly.

"I think I know how you feel, Dave," said Holly solemnly. "I had to leave someone pretty special behind, too."

"Be that as it may, Holly—I'm sure that you'll only succeed in making things worse. I'll get us started then, shall I?" said Rimmer, clapping his hands together. "I wonder what they're doing right now—"

"Rimmer-"

"How does all this make you feel?" Rimmer continued, tapping his chin. "You're really crushed, aren't you?"

"Leave me alone."

"Do you miss them terribly?"

"Rimmer! I don't want to talk to you about it, okay?" Lister said. "Please—just leave me alone and let me watch me show."

Rimmer reluctantly left Lister to go find the Cat and Kryten. He circled the ship, checking every room where they usually spent their time, until he found them in the Drive Room.

"Well?" said the Cat expectantly as Rimmer entered the room. "How'd it go?"

"He refuses to talk about it!" exclaimed Rimmer bleakly. "He's acting as though he forgot all about them—like none of it ever happened!"

"Oh, poor Mr. Lister," said Kryten sympathetically. "Just imagine how he must feel!"

"Sometimes silence is the strongest form of grief," said the Cat astutely.

"Why, Mr. Cat—I never knew that you possessed such great wisdom!" exclaimed Kryten.

"Yes, where did you get that from, you gimboid?" said Rimmer, who was unable to believe that he had just heard those words come out of Cat's mouth. "No way did you ever come up with that on your own."

"Oh, I read it off the back of this book here!" said the Cat brightly, holding up a volume titled _How To Cope With Grief._

"I should've known," said Rimmer, shaking his head. "You truly are a creature of rare intelligence, Cat."

"Really?" said the Cat hopefully.

"Yes," said Rimmer. "You rarely show any."

"What are we going to do about Mr. Lister's condition?" asked Kryten. "I don't know how much longer I can stand seeing him like this. I do love serving and caring for him day and night—it is my greatest joy. On the other hand, I would give anything to see that chirpy, whimsical smile again."

"Well, Kryten," said Rimmer. "You and I have both been unsuccessful in consoling Lister. Perhaps it takes more of a simpleton to cheer him up."

Rimmer looked around the room for a candidate. "Ah—Cat. How would you feel about volunteering?"

"What am I supposed to do?" asked the Cat.

"Oh, I dunno," said Rimmer, shrugging. "Slap some sense into him or something."

…

"_We'll have a gay old time_!"

"Holly," Lister called, sitting up in bed as _The Flintstones _credits finished rolling and the screen went black. "Put in the next vid, will you?"

"That's it, Dave," said Holly. "I'm afraid you've watched every episode."

"Start it from the top again, then," said Lister tiredly.

"Okay, Dave," said Holly, loading the first ever episode of _The Flintstones._ Lister sank back into his bed of pillows, satisfied, as the familiar show tune started up again.

At that moment, Cat decided to visit Lister in the medical unit.

"Hey, buddy!" said the Cat cheerfully, standing in front of the vid screen. Lister leaned over to the right to try to see past Cat. Cat slid to his left so he was blocking Lister again. Lister leaned to his left and the Cat moved over so he was blocking Lister once again.

"Do you mind?" said the Cat, reaching behind him to switch off the monitor.

"Hey!" Lister cried. "I was watchin' that!"

"And I was trying to talk to you!" said the Cat. "Pay attention to me!"

Lister looked determinedly away from Cat. He suddenly felt a sharp sting on his cheek as the Cat slapped him across the face. Lister touched his stinging cheek in shock.

"You hit me," said Lister, still holding his face as he looked up at the Cat in disbelief. "What was that for?"

"Hey, Goalpost-Head was right," exclaimed the Cat, looking quite pleased at himself. "It did work!"

"But why did you slap me?" asked Lister, his cheek throbbing painfully.

"Because I hate it when I'm being ignored," said the Cat, as he sat down on the end of the bed on top of Lister's legs. "Move over!"

Lister curled his legs up to make room for the Cat. He stroked his face gingerly. "I think I need an icepack or something…"

"Don't be such a baby," said the Cat. "What's wrong with you? You've all me, me, me twenty-four seven these days. I didn't come here to hear you complain!

"Then what did you come here for?" said Lister sullenly.

"I came for a visit!" said the Cat happily. "You should feel very privileged!"

"Should I?" grumbled Lister, so low that the Cat didn't seem to hear him.

"So," said the Cat pleasantly. "How're you feeling today, bud?"

"I'm—" Lister glowered, but the Cat cut him off.

"That's great. That's really great. I'm having a pretty good day so far myself. I've eaten five times, slept four times, made two new stylin' suits and made goalpost head's old storage locker mine! I've even had some time to be thoughtful and generous! See? I've brought you something!"

Cat dropped something silver into Lister's lap. Lister held it up skeptically, unimpressed. "This is just a wrapper to a crunchy bar."

"I got hungry on my way over to visit you," the Cat explained. "But hey, you know what they say—it's the thought that counts, right?"

Lister rolled his eyes and said, "On."

Lister once again turned his attention to the monitor.

"Hey, monkey!" said Cat, waving his hand in front of Lister's face. "Where's your manners? Aren't you going to say thank you for my generosity? What's wrong with you? You're not still upset about leaving the dormouse duo behind, are you?"

Lister glared at Cat disdainfully. "I'm really broken up, man."

"Oh, that reminds me why I came here!" said the Cat cheerfully. "I brought you something else that'll cheer you up for sure!"

Lister was highly skeptical that the Cat had brought anything that could possibly cheer him up, but he decided to go along with the Cat's game, thinking that maybe he would go away if he appeased him. "Really? What is it?"

The Cat reached into one of his many coat pockets and dug around. He pulled out a ball of yarn with a tinfoil ball on the end along with a clump of feathers. "No, that's not it," said the Cat, shoving his hand into another of his numerous pockets. This time he pulled out a decent-sized hand mirror, eyebrow comb, and dental floss and tossed them aside into his growing pile of pruning tools.

"Don't worry," said the Cat, as he pulled out a spray bottle and sniffed it. "It's here somewhere…"

Lister waited impatiently as the Cat looked for his present, whatever it was.

"I found it!'' the Cat exclaimed after several more minutes of searching. "There you go, bud."

The Cat held out a Polaroid picture, which Lister numbly accepted. He took one look at it flipped it over, quickly turning away. He tried to compose himself before taking another glance at the photograph. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath before opening his eyes and looking at the picture again.

It was the picture that his past self had taken of him outside the medical unit with Jim and Bexley just minutes after their births. The picture became blurry as he felt a hot, stinging sensation in the corners of his eyes, which he furiously rubbed, only further aggravating them. He stared unblinkingly at the picture as though he had never seen it before. He looked deeply into the faces in the photograph, his head spinning. He had one of his babies in either arm, wrapped in their silver thermal blankets. Jim had a pale blue pacifier in his mouth and both of them were crying, their faces bright red, their hands balled into fists. His eyes reluctantly drifted up to his own face. He looked dead tired, with deep, dark circles under his eyes—not much different than how he looked now. Nevertheless, he was still beaming with pride.

Lister was envious of his past self in this photograph. This version of himself was elated with happiness, optimistic about his future. He was completely oblivious that in three short days he would be parting with his newborn sons whom he'd thought he'd be spending the rest of his life with. He felt even worse for his photographic infant sons, who had no idea that they'd have virtually no childhood. Lister felt gleeful and sickened at the same time as he looked at the Polaroid, pondering the cruelty of life, especially his life. He returned to his frequent station of being hopelessly lost in his thoughts.

Lister coughed uncomfortably when he remembered that the Cat was still there and watching him. Lister embarrassedly wiped his eyes on his shirt, which he also used as a handkerchief. The Cat looked graciously in the opposite direction until Lister had finished.

Lister clutched the photograph to his chest. "Where'd you find this?"

"I found it in your bunk," said the Cat. "I was in your sleeping quarters to leave a little present in one of alphabet-head's old boots. But I think the better question is how you got it. I don't remember anyone taking a picture."

"That's because you weren't there," Lister explained. "That's why I left the medical unit. My past self was waiting out there to take a picture of us. Future echoes, remember? Now when I get to be one-hundred and seventy-one, I have to remind my past self to take the photograph or else I won't have this now."

"That sounds really hard to remember," said the Cat. "I'd write it down somewhere if I were you!"

"Thanks, Cat," said Lister, blowing his nose noisily. "This picture really means a lot to me. It's all that I've got left of them."

"Now, buddy—you know that's not true!" said the Cat, slapping Lister roughly on the back. "You've also got twenty extra pounds to lose and you're going to have a pretty nasty scar as well!"

"I thought that things would get better around here once I had me boys," said Lister, ignoring the Cat's last remark. "Believe it or not, once I got used to the idea I was really, really excited. For me it was finally an opportunity to have a family—a real family, flesh and blood. It was the chance to finally have some happiness in my smeg-awful life. I almost had something really good, a real life. I almost had it made. Then—then—this happened. They grew up in the same amount of time that it takes for me to get over a hangover."

"Listen—you've got to get over them and on with your life!" said the Cat. "See? Do I look all bothered about it? No! That's because I've moved on! It wasn't hard at all. You should try it!"

"It's easy for you," said Lister, staring at his hands. "They weren't your kids..."

"And thank God for that!" said the Cat bluntly. "Look at you! You're even more of a mess than your sleeping quarters! And here I am, trying to make you feel better…"

"Yeah, and a fat lot of good you're doing," said Lister sarcastically. "You're about as helpful as a lead parachute. You're only making me feel worse, guy!"

"No I'm not," the Cat insisted. "I think that everything happens for a reason. Look on the bright side—"

"There is no bright side!" Lister yelled.

"Hey, calm down, bud!" said the Cat. "I say that we go have a game of poker."

"I don't feel like having a game of poker! How can you be so insensitive? I really miss them. I'm miserable. I don't know how I ever got along without them now. They didn't get a childhood—it's totally unfair. Just try to imagine how confused they must feel—being left behind in an unfamiliar universe where everything's opposite and they're suddenly the inferior sex. Deb may be the female version of me, but she'll never be able to understand them. Not like I do."

Lister stared off out the window and watched as several thousand stars whizzed past. He shuddered, hiding his face in his hands, and said in a muffled voice, "Smeg, I miss them…"

"I know what it's like to miss someone," said the Cat thoughtfully. "I once had this pet fruit fly. I found it inside one of the boxes in the cargo decks. That little fruit fly was my best friend—we did everything together. It followed me everywhere—or I might've been following it. I don't remember now. Anyways, the two of us would play games all day—Cat games, you know. My personal favorite was 'You Fly Away and I'll Pounce On You.'"

"And what happened to it?" mumbled Lister.

"Well, we were playing his favorite, 'How Long Can You Stay Trapped Under My Foot.'"

"And?"

"And it just stopped moving!" the Cat exclaimed. "After poking at it's lifeless, flat body for a couple of hours I realized that it must be dead. It was tragic—now that it was dead I couldn't have fun anymore!"

"I think mine is slightly worse," said Lister glumly. "Now if you don't mind, I'd really like to be by myself right now."

"I can see when I'm not wanted," said the Cat, getting to his feet and snatching up the shiny crunchy bar wrapper. "And I'm taking your present with me!"

_At last, _Lister thought as he turned his attention back to the screen. Maybe they would finally leave him alone.

…

A week later, Lister was discharged from the medical unit once Kryten had deemed him to be healthy enough. He kept telling himself that he had done the right thing. But then why did he feel so cruddy? He felt like a cold, heartless monster. He was now struggling to pick up his life where he had left off before any of this ever happened. It wasn't easy. He couldn't look anywhere without thinking about Jim and Bexley. Several times a day his heart had leapt and his hopes soared when he thought he heard their voices, or imagined that he saw them in the corner of his eye. Upon further inspection he was always disappointed. Holly had been watching the ship from an outside monitor and had excitedly reported to Lister that there was a second Red Dwarf outside. Lister's hopes had soared—were they coming back for a visit already? It turned out that Holly had just gone cross-eyed.

Lister was alone in the sleeping quarters, lying in his bunk. He had often wanted to be by himself during the past few weeks, and the others had maintained a somewhat respectful distance from him, even though the Cat still came in on a regular basis with his 'investigating feet.' In time, Lister had begun to open up and warm up to his crewmates again, albeit with reluctance.

Rimmer peeked his head into the sleeping quarters without Lister noticing him. Rimmer saw Lister reach into the pocket of his leather jacket and pull out a dog-eared photograph. He often saw Lister do this when he thought no one else was watching. Lister kept the photograph of himself and the newborn Jim and Bexley on his person at all times. It was like he was afraid of forgetting them.

"Hello, Listy," said Rimmer curtly, making his presence known. "I hope that you've learned your lesson from all of this: never love anyone. They always end up leaving you in the end."

"That's just you, Rimmer," said Lister. "And besides, they didn't leave me. I left them."

"You really are being a sad goit," said Rimmer. "Mr. Self-Pity."

"I've had enough," said Lister to Rimmer as he lay in his bunk, looking sadly at the photograph. "I just want to go back home to Earth."

"We could give the Hop Drive another try," Holly suggested. "You never know. It might get us back to Earth somehow."

"It just doesn't feel right going back without them," said Lister, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I just wish that I could've had more time with them…"

"You'll see them again someday," said Rimmer, who was now supervising the skutters as they categorized his collection of shoetrees.

"Do you really think so?" asked Lister hopefully.

"I know so," said Rimmer.

Lister rolled over to his stomach and leaned over the side of his bunk. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because," said Rimmer simply. "Future echoes, remember? Everything else we saw that day has happened. Remember that conversation we had with your future self? I recall that he—I mean you—said that you and the twins still had all of those times together to enjoy. You had to have meant more than three days."

"Hey," said Lister, comprehension dawning on him. "You're right. I will see them again someday, won't I?"

"In time you should," said Holly. "So, what do you say to the Hop Drive, Dave?"

"Let's do it!" Lister exclaimed with new enthusiasm, cramming his leather deerstalker onto his head and leading the way into the Drive Room where the Holly Hop Drive was waiting.

ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES

10 NOVEMBER, 3,000,002, 181

Tape on, Holly. It has been six weeks to the day that we returned Jim and Bexley to their universe. Life has returned to normal for the most part. Lister is pretty much his slobby, uncouth self again. We knew that we had him back when Cat has ironing one of his favorite suits and burned a hole right through it and Lister laughed at him. He's been distracting himself by trying to break that gibbering droid's programming. Personally, I think it's a waste of time. Kryten is also learning to pilot the Starbug. He has been practicing for weeks. I am conducting his piloting test tomorrow. We used the Hop Drive one last time five weeks ago to try to get back to Earth. There was no noticeable difference, but Holly did detect some unidentified universe on the long-range scan. We should be getting near whatever it is any day now. If it's not Earth, maybe it will at least be someone who can restore my body. Tape off.

**THE END**

**AN: There you have it, folks. My first Red Dwarf fanfiction. And I well exceeded my goal of trying to write something novel-length. I already have ideas for more stories, but I'm pretty sure that none of them will be as long as this was.**

**To avoid any confusion, the part where Rimmer explains that Lister's future self said he had still had more time to come with Jim and Bexley is not from the **_**Future Echoes **_**episode itself, but from a scene in **_**Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers, **_**so it is in fact canon. **

**Starting right where **_**Parallel Universe **_**left off and leading straight into **_**Backwards. **_**I hope you all liked it. **

**Btw, please don't forget to review on your way out. Reviews are good.**

**Cheers**

**kellyofsmeg**


End file.
